


Till We Have Arrived Home Again

by prouvairing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, POV Outsider, Post-War, Sirius Black & Remus Lupin Live, Sirius and Remus Move To A Muggle Village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairing/pseuds/prouvairing
Summary: Summer, 1999. Harry comes home with news. Quite a lot of news.Harry takes a deep breath.“I'm quitting the Aurors,” he starts with, which is followed by a moment of stunned silence.“What?” Sirius says.“All right," Remus says. “Do you know what else you want to do? Did you think about it?”Harry blushes, the way James used to—a rosy glow lighting up his brown skin—and says, “I wanted to—that is, I thought I might be a teacher.”Remus, quite suddenly, seems to have something in his eye. "Oh."“What?” Sirius says.“And uh—there's more. I was thinking I might like to. That is. I want to become an Animagus.”
Relationships: Sirius Black & Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 340
Kudos: 1457





	1. Moony's

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic during NaNoWrimo 2017 and didn't finish it until last year. It has been languishing in my docs for over a year while I worked up the courage to post it. It is very dear to me.
> 
> This is complete, and I plan to keep posting once or twice a week as I edit the chapters. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my beloved Alba, Maddy, and Nur, who read and proofread this. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault.

_We two—how long we were fool’d!_

_Now transmuted, we swiftly escape, as Nature escapes;_

_We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now we return_

_(Walt Whitman)_

People don’t move to Heron Downs every day.

Last time it was a good twelve years ago—a very nice family with two kids and a third on the way. The husband, Mr Fisher, was all set to work at the power-plant just out of town. It was entirely, perfectly normal.

“The Fishers are gits,” says Mrs Singh.

“Mrs Singh!” says Mrs Clements.

“Especially Harriet Fisher.”

Mrs Clements knows everything. She’s no neck-stretcher by any means—indeed, she’ll tell you, she never comes by any of her information by nefarious means, or by sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. She’s very proper, Mrs Clements, and means very well. People just like to tell her things, that’s all.

“You’re a gossip, is what you are,” Mrs Singh says.

“I’m a good listener,” Mrs Clements says. “It really resonates with people, you know?”

Mrs Singh and Mrs Clements run the newsagent’s in town. Indeed, they’re just in front of what used to be Mr Bennet’s shoe shop, which closed down, on account of Mr Bennet being found dead in his flat one morning last Autumn. Flu complications. A dreadful business.

“Well, at least we already went through all this gay business when Jenny Roberts’s boy came out two years ago,” says Mrs Singh. “Now everybody will just get on with it, hopefully, without a big to-do about it.”

“Mrs Singh!” says Mrs Clements. “We don’t know these gentlemen are… that way.”

“Oh, please, Constance,” says Mrs Singh. “Have you seen that boy’s trousers?”

The trousers are rather tight. Still, young men these days have their fashions, don’t they?

And the other boy—the polite one, with the scars and the jumpers. He looks rather, well— _normal_ is not the polite word to use, Mrs Clements knows. But at any rate.

The boys—men, in their late thirties at the very least, which would still make them boys to Mrs Clements—just moved into Beech Cottage, up the hill, a little ways out of town.

Mrs Clements heard from Venetia Crawford, their nearest neighbour, that they showed up all of a sudden one night. She’d known because the lights were suddenly on in the cottage, as they had not been for at least twenty years.

In fact, until now, many of the younger kids in town liked to believe the Cottage haunted. It belonged to a son of the Parkers, who hadn’t been seen in Heron Downs since Mrs Parker died, and Mr Parker was moved into a nursing home.

“The son must have sold,” Jenny Roberts said one morning, while Mrs Clements’s granddaughter, Stacey, rang her up. “A horrible man. I remember him from school. Used to drive up Main Street and honk at the Year Elevens.”

So she knows about the boys who moved into Beech Cottage, and she’s seen them around town, but for the life of her, Mrs Clements couldn’t tell you what their names actually are.

“I think he looks like a Jeremy,” Mrs Singh says.

“Which one?”

“The frumpy one.”

“Mrs Singh!”

This morning, Bennet’s shoe shop across the street is gone. In its place, seemingly overnight, has sprung a cosy little bookshop.

_Moony’s._

“A good paintjob, for something that wasn’t even there last night,” Mrs Singh says.

“Polite of them, to get work done so unobtrusively, no?” says Mrs Clements. It’s always good to see the bright side of any situation, after all.

“Stacey,” she says, right after. “You should go say hello to Mr… Mr Moony, yes. Must welcome him to the neighbourhood.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because your Nan is still pretending she’s not a nosy so-and-so. And while you’re at it ask if his name is Jeremy.”

“His name is not going to be Jeremy,” Mrs Clements says. She then heaves a sharp sigh, and says, “Right, then. If I must do everything myself!”

So she grabs her big bag, the one where she keeps extra sweets, and strides out of the newsagent’s with purpose and a jingle of bells.

The front display of _Moony’s_ is painted in pretty autumn colours, and it’s altogether very pleasing. The lettering up top is golden, winking cheekily in the dreary afternoon light. The jingle of _Moony’s_ bell is also quite cheerful, and Mrs Clements is immediately endeared.

Mr Moony himself is sitting at the counter, behind a rather old-fashioned cash register. It’s nothing like the modern one Mrs Clements installed at _Clements & Singh_, and it brings a sudden pang of nostalgia for times long gone. There is a cosy reading nook in a corner, surrounded by stacks, though the shop is small. An empty fireplace stands just behind the counter where Mr Moony is hunched over a book.

Mrs Clements privately thinks that _frumpy_ is a rather uncharitable way of describing him. The boy has honey-brown hair and a quite unhealthy pallor, it’s true, but he looks almost handsome in a pinched sort of way. He’s wearing a brown sweater and the sleeves of his shirt sleeves are a bit frayed—an inkblot on one edge, and more ink staining his fingers—but he looks completely respectable. Well, besides the scars.

Mr Moony looks up from his book, and smiles at her kindly. His eyes are whiskey-gold and warm, and yes, it is really no matter about the big scar across his nose, and the smaller one up his jaw.

“An animal attack, if you were wondering,” Mr Moony says. “When I was younger.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs Clements says. “Was I staring? I’m so sorry, that’s very rude.”

Mr Moony smiles, and waves a long-fingered hand. “Not at all. I think it best to do away with awkward questions from the get go.” His smile is a little mischievous, Mrs Clements thinks, underneath the proper politeness. “Now that _that_ is out of the way, welcome. How may I help you?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” Mrs Clements says. “But you see—I own the newsagent’s opposite. Thought I’d best welcome you to the street. I’m Constance Clements.”

Mr Moony blinks, his smile having slipped in polite surprise. “That is—that is very kind, Mrs Clements. It is certainly very nice to meet you. I’m Remus Lupin.”

So—not a Mr Moony, after all. And not a Jeremy either. Mrs Clements can’t wait to tell Mrs Singh.

She approaches the desk, and Mr Lupin straightens and stiffens ever so slightly, though his smile stays perfectly kind.

“Oh, no need to worry about me, young man, I’m just an old lady,” Mrs Clements says, making him duck his head. She pulls out a generous slab of Cadbury from her bag. “Care for a chocolate?”

Mr Lupin’s demeanour changes perceptibly. His shoulders shake, and he stifles a laugh.

Rather handsome, yes, behind that jumper.

“Oh, Mrs Clements,” he says, and opens a drawer on the counter. Mrs Clements stretches her neck briefly, to peer over it. The drawer is full of chocolate bars—Cadbury and Twix and Mint Aeros and a few brightly coloured packages she struggles to recognise. A few might have unfamiliar prints of frogs on them.

Mr Lupin looks at her with that mischievous smile. “A woman after my own heart.”

Mrs Clements laughs. Mr Lupin, finally, seems to relax.

“I have to say, we’re all terribly curious about you and your young man,” she says. She does not miss the wry bend to Mr Lupin’s mouth at the mention of his _young man._ “It isn’t every day that new people move to Heron Downs.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do,” Mr Lupin says. “It’s quiet. I fell in love with the Cottage immediately, I have to say.”

“The kids used to think it was haunted, you know,” Mrs Clements says.

An odd, wistful look passes over Mr Lupin’s face. He quirks an eyebrow, and says, “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs Clements says. “It’s very good someone’s back in it now. I can’t imagine what the state of it was. Was it a lot of work for you and Mr—”

“Mr Black,” Mr Lupin says. “My—my partner, Sirius Black. And yes, there was some work to be done, but we had a few friends over to help with it. Sirius does like a project.”

He pauses there, smiling pleasantly, and if there is a little challenge in his eyes, it is very faint. Proper. Mrs Clements is starting to think Mr Lupin may be a man after her own heart, indeed.

She can almost hear Mrs Singh’s voice in her ear, however— _where did their friends spring from? We didn’t see any cars, did we?_ It’s very silly, of course. They could very well have come by coach.

“I would love to see what you’ve done with the place sometime,” Mrs Clements says. “I remember it from when Gladys Parker decorated it. I’m sure you can’t have done much worse than her.”

“Oh, I do hope not,” Mr Lupin says.

“And you must come to the Channing Street shopkeepers’ meetings, I will mail the details to you. We talk about street affairs, you see, local policy and the like. And it is so helpful to know one’s neighbours. You never know when you might need help.”

“Indeed,” Mr Lupin says, still offering that vague smile.

All in all, a success, in Mrs Clements’s very humble opinion. As she strides across Channing Street, she smiles to herself, and loudly greets Mrs Peters and her dog, Lulu, who are passing by.

“His name,” she declares, walking triumphantly back into the shop. “Is _not_ Jeremy.”

*

There is a moment, as he wakes up that morning, when Remus seriously considers whether he’s not just lost is mind, and is imagining all this.

It’s painfully perfect, almost cliché—the way the milky morning light filters through the curtains of the master bedroom, over the yellow carpet Sirius didn’t want to get rid of for some unfathomable reason. The weight of another body in the bed, and Sirius shifting and grunting in sleep like he used to.

It’s not perfect, of course—sleep is a hard-won nightly battle, and Remus is starting to learn to sleep through Sirius getting up in the middle of the night and wondering the house like a ghost. Still, if they’re the only thing haunting this Cottage, he will count them lucky.

Sirius turns, still asleep—it’s very hard to get him to sleep, and very hard to get him out of it. Just as Remus is thinking that maybe it might be time to force himself out of bed and Apparate into the office above the bookshop, Sirius turns all the way and throws an arm across Remus’s waist.

He’s not wearing very much, as evidenced by one naked thigh, which sneaks in-between Remus’s legs.

“Help,” Remus mutters, under his breath. “I’m trapped.”

“Oh, don’t,” Sirius says into the back of his neck. “Like you don’t like it, Moony, you minx.”

“Do _not_ ,” Remus replies, not his most scintillating repartee. He also belies his protest by shuffling back into Sirius, who is very warm, and has a very mischievous mouth. Said mouth has found its way to the side of Remus’s neck.

“I think you do,” Sirius says. His voice is low, and gravelly, and miraculous. “Lying here in my bed all warm and scantily clad.”

“ _My_ bed, you mean.”

A flash of teeth against his neck.

“—a verifiable Jezebel.”

“Do you even know what that—”

Remus never finishes that thought. It doesn’t matter, because Sirius’s hand is making its way down into his pyjama bottoms, and that, as they say, is that.

There are certain perks to running his own business, anyhow.

*

“You’re not _late_ , Remus, you drama queen,” Sirius says, not an hour later.

“I’m behind schedule,” Remus replies with much dignity.

“And you’re still perfectly fine, because you get up two hours early for everything.”

Sirius is attempting to wrestle a semblance of breakfast out of the Muggle stove. The stove isn’t taking to his cooking charms very well. Remus is probably going to have to call Molly Weasley and ask for advice. And then she’ll start talking about how skinny both he and Sirius are, and _really, Remus, you should take better care of him._

Remus isn’t sure why they all assume _he’s_ the one who needs to feed Sirius, when he often forgets to feed his own self. If they’re a bit of a mess, still, it’s because it had been Sirius, before, to take care that Remus ate. And these days Sirius is as liable to fight with the stove for two hours as to spend six hours staring out to the woods edging the backyard, lost in whatever dark places he spent twelve years in.

Remus has been alone for a long time, but in those years skipping meals was more of a necessity than a preference, and at any rate, it would only affect _him_. But he’s got Sirius to think about now, and Sirius has him.

So things aren’t quite working out perfectly, but they’re a little better than they’d been and that’s enough. That’s almost perfect.

Sirius manages to produce tea and toast, which is really all Remus could possibly ask for.

“I can’t believe you have me waking up at seven.”

“You can go back to sleep after,” Remus says. He’s been reading the same two lines of this article in the _Prophet_ over and over _._ He kept stealing glances at Sirius at the stove in his undies, and now that he’s sitting down at the table, it’s the smudge of butter at the corner of Sirius’s lip. “Besides, we weren’t up at seven. More like, quarter to eight.”

Sirius smiles at him, slow and wicked, and Remus goes back to his paper pointedly.

“Sprog’s in the paper,” Sirius says, a sharp observation. Harry’s picture is right in the front page and impossible to miss. He looks uncomfortable and a little cross, squinting at the camera. “Can you give me the page?”

Remus, who has miraculously already managed to read the article Harry’s in, hands over the page with no further protest.

Sirius sips his tea across from him and reads about the one-year anniversary celebration that Harry’s been invited to. The _Prophet_ put up a valiant effort to get a comment from Harry himself, with mixed results.

“ _Trainee Auror Potter,_ _the famous Boy-Who-Lived, expressed deep gratitude for the public’s support, and is pleased with the work of the Wizarding War Remembrance Society in commemorating the Battle of Hogwarts, whose first anniversary is imminent,”_ Sirius reads aloud, a sneer in his voice. “How do you think that _really_ went?”

Remus keeps his eyes on his own half of paper. “Mr Potter! Mr Potter! Do you have any comment on the upcoming first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts?”

“ _Er,_ ” Sirius says, his voice dropping in a very poor imitation of Harry, which is eerily similar to his school impression of James.

“Fascinating!” Remus replies. “Don’t you think the Wizarding War Remembrance Society is offering a crucial service to Wizarding society by commemorating and preserving the memory of the Battle?”

“ _Er_ , I guess so,” Sirius replies, his mouth quirking in amusement. Then, in his own normal voice, “They should leave him alone. What do they expect him to _say_ , for Merlin’s sake?”

“It doesn’t matter _what_ he says,” Remus replies, not without bitterness. “It’s like the Triwizard Tournament all over again. They know what they _want_ him to say.”

Sirius frowns at the paper. “What if I—”

“No,” Remus replies.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“Yes, I do,” Remus says. He knocks back the last dregs of tea and brushes breadcrumbs off his trousers. “And no, you can’t turn into a dog and harass the _Prophet_ writers.”

Sirius doesn’t dignify that with a response, probably because Remus is absolutely right. Of course. Remus pauses for a moment to look at Sirius’s still bed-rumpled hair. It’s a little shorter now, barely brushing his shoulders, and in the years that have passed since his pardon it has regained its healthy gloss. It’s sticking up hilariously on one side, there’s a faint shadow of stubble on his chin, and his sleep shirt needs a wash. He looks absolutely perfect.

“Best be going,” Remus says. He leans over Sirius, propped with a hand on the table, and Sirius looks up at him. “Do come by for lunch.”

Sirius smiles at him, and the pinched look goes out of his eyes. “And give the ladies at _Clements & Singh _a show?”

Remus bends down further, and meets Sirius’s mischievous smile. His kiss tastes of tea and toast, salty like the smudge of butter at the corner of his mouth, and Remus lingers a little past what he originally intended.

“Well, why not?” Remus says, when they finally separate. “They’re all _very curious_ about _my young man_.”

Sirius barks a laugh at that, as Remus knew he would. It’s all sorts of perfect, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to support this fic, please [reblog](https://seagreeneyes.tumblr.com/post/189746249815/till-we-have-arrived-home-again-chapters-213) and/or [retweet](https://twitter.com/seagreen_eyes/status/1207437734333296640)!
> 
> One more chapter to go for this update.


	2. Sprog

During the course of the week, _Moony’s_ starts to attract an honest amount of business. Mrs Clements made sure to talk about how she met young Mr Lupin and she thought him a proper young man. She’s very pleased with herself.

“Obviously, it is all thanks to you,” Mrs Singh interjects. “You’re very self-centred, Connie.”

Mrs Clements doesn’t reply, because she’s very sure of herself and her opinion’s value, thank you very much.

“People trust my opinion, you know?” she tells Charlie Roberts, Jenny’s son, as Stacey rings him up for a scratch-off and a pack of chewing gum.

“Alright, Stace,” Charlie Roberts says. He smiles politely at Mrs Clements, who is best pleased to find he’s getting on well after that great gay upheaval last year.

“Alright, Chaz,” Stacey says. “How are you getting on in London?”

“’S alright,” Charlie says. “Got essays, you know. The usual. Good to be home and see Mum.”

“Nobody is giving you any trouble, are they, Charlie?” Mrs Clements interjects helpfully.

Charlie looks at her with an odd smile. “No more than usual, Mrs Clements, but thank you for asking.”

“Have you met the new tenants of Beech Cottage?”

“Can't say I have, though Billy has to buy some books for school, so I reckon we'll go into the new bookshop soon and see.”

“Quite right. You should get on with the owners. Nice chaps. Well, Mr Lupin at any rate. But I'm sure Mr Black is perfectly fine also.”

“Sure, Mrs Clements,” Charlie says.

When Charlie Roberts leaves, Stacey swats Mrs Clements's arm. “Nan, you know just because Charlie's gay doesn't mean he's gotta make friends with the new guys!”

“I never said such a thing!” Mrs Clements says. “Did I say that, Mrs Singh?”

Mrs Singh is shelving tabloids and pointedly does not reply, although she does throw Mrs Clements a speaking look.

“You didn't _have_ to,” Stacey says. “We all knew. Charlie knew. He was this close to laughing, didn't you see?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Stacey. Charlie Roberts is far too polite to laugh like that.”

*

That is also the day they finally meet Mr Black, of course.

Mr Black is immediately different from Mr Lupin. For starters, he appears accompanied by the low rumble of a motorcycle.

Stacey stretches her neck to see him park across the street, right in front of _Moony's_. He's wearing a rather fetching leather jacket, which stretches nicely across his shoulders. Mrs Clements will not retract her previous assessment that Mr Lupin is anything but frumpy, but it is easy to see how one would come to such a conclusion when seeing him in contrast with Mr Black.

Mr Black removes his helmet, and shakes out a tangle of black hair.

“I can't believe his helmet hair looks like _that_ ,” Stacey whispers. The three of them have mysteriously found their way to the front of the shop, and are peering through the window.

“What product do you think he uses?” asks Mrs Singh.

“I will ask when he comes in,” Stacey says.

“You will do no such thing,” Mrs Clements says. “And he might not come in anyhow.”

But Mr Black does come in. He ducks into _Moony's_ first, but emerges a few minutes later and strides purposefully across Channing Street. The ladies inside scatter. Mrs Singh goes back to stacking tabloids. Stacey ducks behind the counter. Mrs Clements, who has no knack for such mischief, remains standing by the door, and as such finds herself face-to-face with Mr Black when he walks in.

He's certainly striking, though skinnier than he appeared from afar. His eyes are a bit sunken, and there's an air of vague distress about him that nevertheless does nothing to make him appear less handsome.

And, well, the hair.

“Hullo,” Mr Black says. “You must be Mrs Clements.”

“A sharp observation,” says Mrs Singh.

“Do you use any product on your hair?” Stacey asks.

“Welcome!” Mrs Clements chirps loudly.

Mr Black is smiling broadly, something vaguely deranged in it, like someone who is having perhaps a bit too much fun.

“I honestly don’t know what to address first,” he says, delighted.

“None of _that_ ,” Mrs Clements says. “Please excuse my granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?” Mr Black exclaims. “Don’t tease me, Mrs Clements, you’re far too young to have a granddaughter.”

Mrs Singh shoots Stacey a look, and they both titter. Mrs Clements pays them no mind, as they have no manners, neither of them.

“Oh, you’re _charming_ ,” Mrs Clements says. “I see what your Mr Lupin sees in you.”

If anything, Mr Black’s smile broadens. “I tell him so all the time! He’s always complaining about me, you know? Sirius, take your feet off the coffee table. Sirius, don’t track mud into the house. Sirius, the toast is burnt.” He rolls his eyes. “ _Men._ ”

Stacey makes a sound like she might be suffocating. Mrs Singh is hiding into a tabloid, obviously also restraining her laughter.

“Well, it is lovely to meet you,” Mrs Clements says. “Mr Lupin was telling me you’ve taken up restoration of Beech Cottage.”

Mr Black is still smiling, but the way his shoulders relax and his eyes light up is telling.

“Oh, yes!” he says. “You _have_ been talking to my Moony, haven’t you? I’ve had some help, my godson comes once a week or so. It’s been coming along nicely.”

“I was telling him I should love to see what you have done with the place,” Mrs Clements says.

“Ah,” Mr Black says, visibly hesitating. Curious. “Don’t take offence, Mrs Clements, but that might be a little ways off. It’s all a bit of a mess at the moment.”

“Oh, don’t worry at all, young man,” Mrs Clements says. “I understand.”

Mr Black peruses the line of sweets for a few minutes, seemingly determined to pick a few of everything.

“Oh, what’s this?” he says at one point. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this.”

Stacey frowns at him. “You’ve never seen a Mars Bar?”

“I’ll take five. Moony’s got to see this.”

“I have been wondering why the shop’s named that,” Mrs Singh pipes up.

“Oh, that,” Mr Black laughs. “An old school nickname. We’re rather attached.”

After having thoroughly raided their sweets, Mr Black heads out, followed by many well-wishes and a jingling of bells.

Right before he heads out, however, he looks at Stacey very seriously and says, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you about my hair products. Family secret.”

He taps his nose, and vanishes back out the door and into _Moony’s_.

“What a lovely boy!” Mrs Clements declares.

Mrs Singh does nothing but pat Stacey’s hand gently. The hair thing really was a blow.

*

“You don’t need to look _quite_ so smug,” Remus says, perched on his stool behind the counter.

Sirius is currently sitting on the edge of the counter, right by the cash register. His feet are resting on either side of Remus’s thighs, on Remus’s chair, and he’s a bit put out that Remus isn’t even looking at him.

What’s a man got to do to get his lover to leer at him a little?

Remus is reading a book—Sirius would be more annoyed if it weren’t such a Remus-y thing to do, and if he didn’t look so good while doing it. He scrunches up his nose, and widens his eyes, and purses his lips, and smiles, and frowns. It’s a whole face journey.

In school, around fifth year, when James had finally caught onto the fact that Sirius fancied Remus like a perfect fool, he’d used to make fun of the way Sirius stared.

“You’ll use him up, Pads,” he would say. “And there’s not much of him to begin with! He’s not even doing anything interesting, really—just sitting there.”

“Reading.”

“Being Remus.” James smiled, sharp. “Though I guess that’s what does it for you.”

It’s an unusual thing, to have James’s comments in his ear like he never left. He’d lost them for a while, unable to think of happy things like James taking the piss out of him. Having him in his head again is too much of a relief to even hurt.

" _Au contraire_ , my dear moonstar," Sirius says. Just as he intended, this elicits a brief eye-roll from Remus. "Mrs Clements called me charming."

"Do I need to worry?" Remus says. There's a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are fixed on his page. He's not reading, merely messing with Sirius. He considers this a challenge, of course.

He extends his leg, ostensibly stretching it, and drags his foot along Remus's outer thigh.

"I am certainly going to elope with her, expect news at any time."

"Surely she's married."

"She could be a widow."

He takes advantage of the new position to drag Remus's chair a little closer.

"She could have killed her previous husband for his fortune. You're next, you know? She must know you're rich."

"I just exude _noblesse_ , don't I?"

"You exude something alright," Remus says. The corners of his eyes are crinkled. There aren't enough laugh lines on his face, and too many worry lines on his forehead.

Sirius hums, and catches Remus's hand as he goes to fake-turn a page. He brings it to his lips, which is cheating. It is also always effective, as it inevitably makes Remus blush underneath his scar.

The scar is new—from the long time Remus was alone. They picked Beech Cottage partly because it is within Apparating distance of a sufficiently deserted forest. Far enough from the village, so that Padfoot can keep Moony company every month. No more scars, if Sirius can help it.

Still, the scar makes Remus look very distinguished, a little roguish, exceptionally kissable. Not that Sirius is biased, and fuck off James.

Remus finally looks away from his book. He smiles, though his words try to belie the absolutely soppy look Sirius has put there.

"Will you continue being a nuisance? Some of us have a business to run."

"You love it," Sirius says, and Remus swats him. He does not deny it.

The door jingles.

Sirius doesn't move from his perch, but he does look back to see two local boys stride in. A taller, older teen, around Harry's age from the look of him, and a smaller pre-teen. Both of them are pale and slightly ruddy, with identical mops of brown hair.

"Hello," Sirius says. He doesn't move, and leaves Remus to physically remove his legs from his lap so that he can stand.

The taller boy tracks their movements with evident curiosity. He smiles at Remus when Remus welcomes them.

"Hi, I'm Charlie," says Charlie. "Mum runs the grocer's one street over, don't know if you've met? This is Billy, my brother. Just wondering—have you got school textbooks?"

"It's nice to meet you, Charlie, Billy. Do you have a list?" Remus asks.

Business goes on from there—Remus is the height of professionalism. Sirius can hardly take his eyes off of him, being all bookish and charming and Remus-y. It makes Sirius wish he'd seen Remus in action at Hogwarts. They'd always said he'd make a great teacher. According to Harry's reports, he did.

Later, at home, Remus is laying the table while Sirius argues with the stove, when he asks, “Will we ever actually let Mrs Clements come visit?”

"Yeah, why not?" says Sirius, who's managed to turn on the oven, miraculously.

"Won't it be strange?" Remus says. "The house was done way too quick."

"Muggles never notice these things," Sirius says. "You Apparate to and from the shop every day and nobody's batted an eyelash about how you never come in and out of the shop."

"There's a backdoor, you know, Sirius," Remus says. "And besides, people wouldn't just confront us about these things. They'd gossip among themselves."

"Of course," Sirius says. "Which is why I set up one of the Weasleys' Extendable Ears in _Clements & Singh._"

Remus sets a plate down a touch too hard. "Pads!"

"What?" Sirius says. "It's a public place! 'S not like I put it in their house. And all I found out is that Venetia, you know, next door? Her daughter's dating the Perkins boy, and she's, like, totally out of his league."

"Sirius."

"Oh, and Jenny Roberts definitely has a crush on you. Gonna have to have a go at her in public for setting her sights on my man. And her son's gay, you know, Charlie? It was a whole thing two years ago, but apparently it’s why everyone's been so welcoming. He broke the ice for us, poor chap."

Remus rolls his eyes. "You're gonna remove that Ear tomorrow."

"It's bloody useful, though, that is," Sirius says. The pie is in the oven and starting to smell really interesting.

"If you want gossip, I'm sure you can use your considerable charm on Constance herself, and she'll be more than happy to tell you everything."

"My considerable charm, eh?" says Sirius, catching Remus around the waist, and almost getting himself stabbed with a stray butter knife.

"Oi!" he says. "Like you've got any honour left to protect, Moony."

"Never too late," Remus says, setting the butter knife down.

"It's useless," Sirius replies. His face is already tucked into Remus's neck. "I'm just going to ruin you all over again."

Remus would usually respond, draw the banter a while, but Sirius has applied teeth to the sensitive skin of his neck, and he doesn't seem altogether averse to the plan. He gets a hand in Sirius's hair, with which he has a particular fascination, Sirius has found, and pulls him back.

"If you're gonna ruin me," Remus says. "Do it properly."

He kisses Sirius square on the mouth, immediately wet, a hot tongue tracing the seam of Sirius's lips. Sirius needs no convincing, and opens up to him, pulling him in by the hips.

Regrettably, it doesn't last very long. Remus is sucking at Sirius's bottom lip when there's a sharp crack outside, the tell-tale sound of Apparition, followed by a polite knock on the door.

Remus stiffens immediately, and Sirius goes for his wand. They stay still for a long moment, staring at the door, singing with tension.

"It's fine," Remus says.

Sirius takes a deep breath and calls out, “Who is it?”

“It’s alright,” Remus reiterates.

It isn’t, of course, not until they hear the voice on the other side of the door call back, “Elvendork!”

Only then do Sirius’s shoulders unknot. His fingers squeeze Remus’s hips once, before letting go to open the door.

Harry is on the other side, still wearing his robes from training, looking a little awkward on their doorstep. Tall and gangly and so very much a Potter it makes Sirius’s heart expand a little.

He can’t help a broad smile. “Sprog!”

Harry smiles back, and rolls his eyes, coming through the threshold and straight into Sirius’s arms to be patted firmly on the back a few times.

“Harry,” Remus says. “We weren’t expecting you.”

Harry looks a little sheepish, even as he goes to get a slightly awkward pat on the arm from Remus. They look sincerely pleased to see each other, even through the slight awkwardness of two people unused to initiating physical contact. It’s bloody adorable.

And anyway, that’s Sirius’s job—official physical affection dealer in this mismatched, awkward Marauder family.

“Sorry I didn’t send word,” Harry says. “I was hoping to talk to you.”

“Nonsense,” Sirius says. “This is your house. We’ve fixed up your room, by the way, if you ever want to stay over.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He’s perched at the very end of one of the kitchen chairs, and clutching at his knees. He sounds entirely too heartbreakingly surprised. “Oh, really?”

“Said I would, didn’t I?”

Harry smiles. “I’d like that, I think. Sometimes? Er… actually,” Harry looks down, and then pushes his glasses back up his nose. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I see,” Remus says. “Before or after the pie?”

Harry perks up predictably at that. “What kind?”

“Ham and leek.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Harry says. He seems to seriously consider this. “Maybe after the pie would be fine.”

Sirius is just about burning to know what Harry wants to tell them, but Remus throws him a look that takes him right back their school years. And if there's something he never forgets is that Remus was the mastermind behind more than half of their pranks, and that he knows where Sirius sleeps.

“Well, then,” Remus says, as they sit down to eat. "Let me tell you about how Sirius is now seducing old Muggle ladies."

“Constance and I have a beautiful romance,” Sirius says. “One of these days we'll elope.”

“What about Remus?” Harry says, grinning.

“Moony understands, don't you, Moony?”

“Completely," Remus says, cutting into his pie. "Mrs Clements is a catch.”

After dinner, Harry helps them clear the table, and fidgets with the hems of his sleeves—a Weasley jumper, from the look of it—and Sirius is just... not that patient. Never has been.

He leans against the counter besides Harry, and raises an eyebrow. Remus doesn't even attempt to stop him nosying around, so he must be dying of curiosity too.

Harry takes a deep breath.

“I'm quitting the Aurors,” he starts with, which is followed by a moment of stunned silence.

“What?” Sirius says.

“All right," Remus says. “Do you know what else you want to do? Did you think about it?”

Harry blushes, the way James used to—a rosy glow lighting up his brown skin—and says, “I wanted to—that is, I thought I might be a teacher.”

Remus, quite suddenly, seems to have something in his eye. "Oh."

“What?” Sirius says.

“And uh—there's more. I was thinking I might like to. That is. I want to become an Animagus.”

Remus says, “What?” this time, which at least makes Sirius feel a little better.

“Also, uh...” and Harry's starting to look a little sweaty, now, twice as fidgety as before. “Maybe I'm not straight.”

“What?” Sirius again. It's a lot to take in all at once.

“I was wondering if you could help me with it?”

“With being gay?” Sirius asks, still thrown.

“With the Animagus thing!” Harry says. He's standing very straight—the irony—and tense, and looking ready to bolt at any minute.

“All right,” Remus says again. “All right. Well. This is a lot to take in. Why don't we all sit down?”

“I'll—" Sirius says. "Tea."

"Yes, Padfoot, tea,” Remus says. “Harry, sit down. It's all right.”

Harry makes a weird, squeaky noise. Sirius puts on the tea.

*

“Okay,” Sirius says, once they're all sat down with tea. “Okay, I think I accidentally ruined this. You just surprised me a little bit.”

“I could tell,” Harry says, nose hidden in his cup of tea.

“This is good, though,” Sirius says, forcefully. “Great. Okay. But take me through it slowly, again.”

“What Sirius means, I think,” Remus says. “Is that you brought a lot to the table at once, and it would help if you could talk us through it.”

Harry looks at Remus a little gratefully, like _thank Merlin someone knows how to actually be an adult in this house._

“Right, okay,” Harry says, still clutching his cup like a lifeline.

Something about it finally, _finally_ , snaps Sirius out of his shock. Something about seeing Harry look so unsure in his kitchen, and _damn it,_ he’d promised himself he’d make sure this was a place for Harry. Somewhere he would never feel unsure of his welcome.

“Hey, kid,” Sirius says, and finally reaches out to put his hand on Harry’s forearm, stilling the nervous movement of his fingers. “You heard Moony, it’s all right.”

Harry looks at him with those green eyes, and he might be eighteen now, but Sirius will always see the thirteen-year-old he first met in those eyes. Like when he smiles at Sirius a little uncertainly and seems surprised that he might have a room in Sirius’s house.

“Okay,” Harry says. “Uh, the Auror thing. I just—I thought that was what I wanted to do but it’s just—” he seems to struggle for words. “It’s not like I thought it would be.”

Remus purses his lips, and lets out a little huff through his nose.

“Harry,” he says. “It’s okay not to want to fight anymore.”

Harry’s shoulders deflate. “But don’t you think—don’t you think that’s what I’m meant to do?”

“Oh, to hell with that,” Sirius says. For a second he thinks he said the wrong thing again, but then Harry looks up at him through his fringe, and Sirius realizes this might just be the thing he wanted to hear. “Who cares what you’re _meant_ to do Harry. Did it make you happy?”

Harry takes a deep breath. He says, “No.”

“Well, that’s that, then,” Sirius says, then looks at Remus. Remus has that soppy look in his eye again, whiskey gold and warm, and Sirius knows that it was the right thing to say. “So, teaching?”

“Yeah,” Harry straightens up, looking a little bit more like himself. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but I really—I really liked teaching, you know, the DA.”

“I remember,” Remus says. “I saw some good Patronuses from your students.”

Harry flushes again, differently, this time. Pleased. “They were good, weren’t they? I did it like you taught me to.”

Remus is getting pinched and teary again, so Sirius pats his hand. He’s now got a hand on each of them, and he feels a little stupid, but that doesn’t mean he wants to let go.

“Sounds good,” Sirius says. “So you’d teach Defence, then?”

“That’s the idea,” Harry says. “Uh… I talked to Professor McGonagall, a little. I just wanted—well, I didn’t know where to start, really. But she says I can do a Masters course in Defence, and then there’s a practice requirement. She said the board might be willing to waive it for me though, in light of, well—everything.”

Remus nods slowly, munching on the inside of his cheek like he does when he’s thinking, or excited, or—well, in other circumstances Sirius shouldn’t bring up when they’re at the table talking about Harry’s career prospects.

“I think I do want to do the practice, though,” Harry continues. He’s picking up steam, now, forgetting to be nervous. “It’s—part of the reason why I hated it at Training, is that everybody just… knows. They all know. They all expect things from me. I don’t know. I’ve never even been outside of England, I think I’d like to travel, see different things maybe? Go someplace where the War isn’t on everyone’s minds.”

Sirius thinks back to the _Prophet_ article just yesterday, and once again feels the urge to get Padfoot to bite whoever’s been harassing his boy.

“That sounds like a great idea, Harry,” he says, forcefully, like the _Prophet_ writers are in the room to hear the ‘fuck you’ in his voice.

“Really?” Harry says. “I mean, yes. I’m glad you think so.”

Remus hums. “And it’d be good to give you a broader perspective. You learned a lot in the past two years, but there’s no question your Defence education was… fragmented at best.”

“Honestly,” Harry says. “And besides, I think Snape would really hate it if I became Defence teacher.”

Sirius forgets about the _Prophet_ writer and breaks out into a smile and barking laugh. He claps Harry’s forearm, which he’s still holding.

“That’s right!” he says. Harry’s grinning at him. “Oh, man, I hope his portrait sees you.”

Remus is hiding a smile. “We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

Sirius and Harry do quiet down, though they still share a grin.

“Well, I think it’s a lovely idea, Harry,” Remus says.

“I think it's perfect,” Sirius says, and realises as he says it that it's true. Sure, it had been exciting to think about becoming an Auror—it was what James had wanted, so many years ago. But that was before two wars, and if Sirius in the end had wanted to settle down in a sleepy Muggle town, then why can’t Harry want a little quiet for himself too?

There's a pang of something lost in his chest, after all, but there is also the thought that Harry has always been safer at Hogwarts than anywhere else.

It's good to know he hasn't completely ceased to be selfish.

“Now, the other thing,” Remus says, cautiously.

Sirius is about to ask, _Which thing? The Animagus thing or the gay thing?_

Harry beats him to the punch and says, “Oh, yeah. Will you help me become an Animagus?”

*

Harry does stay the night, and the room they set up for him is nothing outstanding—just a room, in colours vaguely reminiscent of Gryffindor Tower. Never let it be said that Sirius doesn’t have a one-track mind.

Remus has been letting him redecorate, gladly. He doesn’t know where Sirius got his eye for colour, whether it’s a pureblood thing, or simply a posh upbringing thing. But Sirius has been teetering between okay and haunted for months now, and it seems that renovation is a good way to channel his energies.

And besides, he’d told Remus, during one of their long sleepless nights, that there was something miraculous about being in control of the house.

“I could never change anything in Grimmauld Place,” he whispered, into the darkness, very close to Remus’s cheek. “Not even when it was mine, you know? Sometimes I’d try to change something, and I’d wake up to find it back the way it was. Or maybe I’d be unable to see it as anything but what it had been.” He’d been quiet for a long moment. “I think it was a good thing. Moving.”

“I think so too,” Remus whispered, equally quiet. There was no need to be, really. They were alone. This was their house. They could turn on all the lights, and stay up until dawn, and disturb no one.

But they were quiet, in the dark, alone.

It’s dark and quiet now, and Remus is supervising the dishes as they wash themselves. He’s alone in the kitchen with nothing but the sound of the kitchenware and the rush of water in the sink, and he’s never felt less lonely.

Harry and Sirius are tangible presences in the house, up in Harry’s room. Remus should be more worried about what they’re discussing. He isn’t. Whatever it is, they can deal with.

The sound of soft footfalls, and Harry appears in the door. He’s wearing flannel pyjama bottoms that are slightly too short at the ankles.

“You're not going to bed?” Remus asks.

“In a minute," Harry says. "Do you need any help?”

Remus gestures to the self-cleaning spell, which is taking care of itself.

“I'm all right," he says. "Just keeping an eye on it.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He lingers in the doorway, hesitating on something. The vaguely hunted look has gone out of his eyes, and he's not fidgeting anymore. He looks a little more centred.

“Thanks,” he says. “For before.”

Remus shrugs, and makes sure to be looking at Harry when he says, “You can always talk to us, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry replies. He smiles a little, like the certainty of it surprises even him. “It's—it's important, I think, that you guys are behind me in this.”

“Of course,” Remus says.

“Ron and Hermione were a little confused,” Harry continues. “About the—about the Auror thing.”

They're quiet for a long moment, before Harry speaks again.

“I kissed a boy,” he says.

“Ah," Remus says. He takes one of the dishes and dries it manually, for something to do.

“It put some things into perspective,” Harry says. “I just—I don't know if it all makes sense yet.”

Remus passes him a plate. Harry grabs it and starts drying it mindlessly.

“It doesn't have to,” Remus says.

Harry frowns, but his shoulders finally relax.

“Okay,” he says. “Where should I put this?”

They finish putting away everything, and then make their way up the stairs to the bedrooms. It's odd to see Harry smile at him and duck into his own room, too like some form of domesticity that he thought was lost to them forever.

When he walks into his and Sirius's room, Padfoot is on the bed, head resting on his paws. He doesn't move when Remus walks in, only looks up with sad doggy eyes and starts to wag his tail against the comforter.

“What is this?” Remus asks, even as he starts to undress. “Giving a practical demonstration? Harry's seen you do that before, you know?”

Padfoot huffs, and suddenly Remus finds himself with a solid meter of black dog underfoot.

“Don't be a nuisance, now,” Remus says. “You're usually much more helpful in getting my clothes off.”

And with that the dog is gone, and there are hands pulling at Remus's sweater.

“Your wish is my command, Messer Moony,” Sirius says. His tone is playful, if a little subdued.

“What's wrong?” Remus asks, even as Sirius starts waging war against his buttons.

“Nothing,” Sirius says. "Do you think that went okay?”

“I think so,” Remus replies. “Harry was telling me just now he—”

“He wanted us on his side,” Sirius finished for him. “I know that. Did we make it clear? I know I was a bit thrown back there, maybe I—”

“I think it's fine,” Remus says. “Harry knows you love him.”

Sirius sighs, and suddenly pitches forward to rest his forehead against Remus's bony collarbones.

“I do,” he says. “I love him.”

“I know,” Remus says. His hands find Sirius's hair, and start combing through it. He scratches behind his ear, a little, like Padfoot likes.

Remus says, “You’re doing okay, Pads.”

Sirius looks up, and he’s got that look in his eye—that hard, intense look he used to get in the early days, when he wanted Remus to believe in—this. Them.

“I wouldn’t be doing half so well without you, Moony,” he says, like it’s a secret.

Remus grins, and leans in, and whispers against Sirius’s mouth, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've lived in England for well over six years now, and my betas have all given this a pass, but any Brit-picking is still more than welcome.
> 
> Currently aiming to have the next chapter up by Sunday!


	3. Transfiguration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly late, but when I made promises I hadn't taken into account that I'd be flying home for Christmas yesterday!
> 
> Next one is coming hopefully mid-week!

The morning finds Sirius and Remus bent over an old Transfiguration textbook at the kitchen table. The book survived many a culling of Remus’s personal effects, in virtue of the fact that Sirius had scribbled on the front page when they were seventeen:

_Property Of_

_The Marvellous And Modest_

_Messer Moony_

The inscription in magical rainbow ink had brought a pang every time Remus saw it, but he’d not had the heart to get rid of it. If at the time he’d thought the man he’d loved lost forever, it had never stopped him loving the memory of that younger, bright and brilliant Sirius.

Sirius traces the rainbow ink and grins at him, all mischief.

“Modest to a fault, Moonshine.”

Remus rolls his eyes at him, and is spared having to reply by Harry, who appears at the door.

“Sprog!” Sirius says. “Come have tea!”

He’s in a much better mood this morning, perhaps having realised that this is a chance to re-enact their best, favourite act of marauding. He Summons a fresh pot of tea for Harry, and freshly made scones (another symptom of his good cheer).

“Sit, sit,” Sirius says, and Harry complies.

“Already starting?” Harry says, pointing at the book. “Not even Hermione.”

The mention of Hermione make Remus ask, “Why didn’t you bring her and Ron, by the way?”

Harry’s grin becomes a little sheepish. “Well,” he says. “She definitely wants to be involved. She’s really excited about seeing the process, it’s just… I kind of wanted this to be—a Marauders thing.”

Over the years, Remus had stopped seeing James in Harry in the obvious ways. Harry is, fundamentally, a very different boy, brought up in a very different way. He lacks the inherent confidence and arrogance they’d loved in James, and possesses a core gentleness that would have looked foreign on James, too. Harry had become just Harry quickly, and love of Harry had stopped being an extension of his love of James a long time ago.

The result, however, is that while Harry has stopped reminding him of James in superficial ways, he’s started reminding Remus of him in some more fundamental, devastating ones.

Like the sudden warmth in his chest at an unexpected display of loyalty and affection. James had been good at both of those things.

“Kid,” Sirius says. “You’re a Marauder, Animagus or not.”

Harry smiles. “I know. But I think—I think it would be good. It’d make me feel… closer. Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” Sirius says. The sombre look goes out of his face, replaced by sudden, almost manic excitement.

“So! First thing: mandrake leaves!”

“No,” Remus says. “First thing: paperwork.”

Sirius shoots him a betrayed look. “Not _paperwork_ , Moony!”

Harry looks faintly ill himself. “Remus, that’s half of the reason why I left the Aurors.”

“You know, teaching involves marking papers,” Remus says, sagely. “There’s paperwork everywhere. Sadly, you too will have to learn how to cope.”

Sirius and Harry look at each other, the perfect picture of misery. Remus hides a grin behind the Transfiguration book.

“That is,” he says. “Unless you decide not to register.”

Sirius and Harry turn towards him, their eyes widening. It’s entirely entertaining.

A slow, wicked smile blooms on Sirius’s face. Harry looks suddenly hopeful.

“Oh, _Moony_ ,” Sirius says, in that vaguely awed way. Honestly, Remus doesn’t know why he keeps being surprised that Remus has a taste for mischief. They’ve been friends since they were eleven.

“Does this surprise you?” Remus says, raising an eyebrow. “I have been gallivanting with unregistered Animagi for the past, oh—what, twenty years?”

“Give or take,” says Sirius, dreamily. “You truly are a gift.”

Harry rolls his eyes, which is warranted. He looks a little embarrassed, then.

“To be honest with you,” Harry says. “I don’t think it had even occurred to me to register.”

Sirius barks a laugh, and pats Harry’s shoulder.

“That’s our Sprog.”

“Is that going to be what you call me then?” Harry wrinkles his nose. “Sprog?”

“Well, it all depends on what animal form you acquire of course,” Sirius says. “But Sprog works, I think.”

“You don’t want to consider registering at all, Harry?” Remus asks.

Harry looks at his hands, and says, “Well—not really. I suppose the thought of the Ministry having that kind of information… doesn’t sit well with me. I mean, look what happened last time something happened. I don’t—I don’t trust it.”

Sirius nods slowly. “Quite right,” he says.

“There’s advantages to being unregistered,” Remus says. “That’s a good one. There’s also stealth. Hiding.”

Harry’s eyes glitter underneath his fringe, and he looks suddenly guilty.

“Harry?”

Harry looks up at Sirius, then at Remus, and says, “Well—that might be part of the reason why I want to do this, too.”

Remus is once again reminded of the article in the _Prophet_ , earlier this week. Sirius must be thinking of it too, because he suddenly looks mutinous.

“Well,” Sirius says. “If this has the added advantage of pissing off the authorities _and_ the press, I think it’s a plan worth the Marauders.”

Harry’s grin widens, and he reaches out for Remus’s book.

“Did you say mandrake?” he asks.

“Oh yeah,” Sirius says. “Disgusting.”

Harry looks suddenly alarmed.

*

“I am _telling_ you, she’s definitely sleeping with him!”

“That Harriet Fisher has no shame... what example does she think she's setting for her children?”

“Well, seeing as how Cathy Fisher is already going after—”

“That is entirely inappropriate, Stacey.”

“Me?” Stacey says, outraged. “Inappropriate? What's inappropriate is Cathy Fisher acting like—”

The door jingles, and to Mrs Clements's abject mortification, Mr Black walks in. It is June, and the weather is warming up. Today is a positively balmy 20°C. Mr Black is wearing a rather fetching collared shirt, leather jacket missing, and his boots look rather odd. Mrs Clements doesn't remember seeing hide that shines with that particular greenish tint.

There's also a boy with Mr Black.

Stacey and Mrs Singh are conspicuously quiet, as Mr Black walks in, followed by the boy.

“Alright, Mrs Clements, Mrs Singh, Stacey,” he booms, saluting them briefly. Behind him, the boy rolls his eyes.

He's a tall, thin brown boy, with a rather nice pair of shoulders on him, and a mess of unruly black hair. Thin round glasses hide a pair of startlingly green eyes.

“Mr Black, always a pleasure to see you,” Mrs Clements says. “How can we help you?”

“Just showing Harry around,” Mr Black says. He gestures to the boy with a flourish. “My godson, Harry Potter.”

There's a pause, there, as Harry Potter smiles nervously and waves. Mr Black looks at them all almost gleefully.

To Harry, he says, “See? Not a flicker of recognition, not a peep. Isn't it marvellous?”

Harry looks at him, his grin now a little more comfortable. “Pretty cool, yes.”

Mrs Clements isn't sure what the boys are talking about, but it doesn't stop her beaming and declaring, “Yes. We are, as you say, pretty cool.”

It causes Stacey to cut off a chuckle with a rather obvious cough.

“Mrs Clements here knows everything about everybody,” Mr Black says. “It's a skill. She also sells these amazing chocolate bars you just have to try.”

Harry squints at the chocolate bar Mr Black shoves in his direction. Then he smiles, something fond and amused in it.

“Sirius, I've had Mars Bars before,” he says.

Mr Black looks back at him with a betrayed, astonished look. “And you never told me!”

“Sirius—“

“No, I understand,” Sirius says. “You're grown up and on your own now, and do not think about me, your poor godfather, who loves you... You never call, never visit...”

“He's joking,” Harry tells them, a hint of panic in his eyes. On closer inspection, the corner of his mouth is twitching in amusement. “I visit every week! Sirius, I'm staying with you for the next month!”

“Oh, do not stay on _my_ account!”

“I'm not,” Harry says, frowning gravely. “I'm staying for Remus.”

At that, Mr Black feigns even greater betrayal for a beat, before giving up the game and cracking up.

Stacey, who had been making noises that vaguely resembled a cat being suffocated, starts laughing herself. Mrs Singh smothers her own titters in her hand.

“Oh, this is jolly amusing,” Mrs Clements says. “You're proper troublemakers, aren't you?”

Mr Black slings an arm around Harry's shoulders, and shakes him lightly. “You bet! His dad and I—and Remus, of course—we got in all sorts of trouble back in school. And you don't even _know_ what Harry and his friends got up to,” he says, widening his eyes at Mrs Clements comically. “You wouldn’t believe it, Constance.”

Mrs Clements can feel the naughty look Mrs Singh is sending her, now that Mr Black has gone and used her first name.

“I most certainly would not!” she says, ignoring Mrs Singh. “He looks like a perfectly nice boy.”

Harry gives her a smile, which makes him look quite handsome. Definitely a perfectly nice boy.

“Thank you, Mrs Clements,” Harry says. “I wish some of my professors could hear you now.”

“Old Minny for sure would disagree,” Mr Black grumbles.

“Professor McGonagall likes me,” Harry protests. “And I don’t think she’d appreciate being called that.”

“Shows what you know,” Sirius says.

Mrs Clements, who has no idea what they are talking about, and decides it is none of her business anyhow, says, “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

“Yes, Mrs Clements,” Harry says, shoving a neat pile of chocolate bars and sweets at her. “It’s on Sirius.”

“Betrayal!” Sirius declaims.

“Do you want me to pay?” Harry asks, sceptical.

“Do not insult me,” Mr Black replies. “I’m very wealthy, you see.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Mrs Clements says, and rings them up.

*

The next morning, they wake to knocking insistent enough to make Padfoot roll out of bed.

“I _told_ you,” Remus says. “Not inside the covers, Pads. You shed.”

Padfoot looks up at him, immensely offended.

“God, I hope Harry doesn’t turn into anything with fur,” Remus says, grabbing a robe in haste. “I have enough with one of you.”

Padfoot huffs and wiggles out of the room, the tick-tick of his nails on the floor walking down the hall, followed by a friendly low bark, and Harry’s, “Oh, good morning, Padfoot.”

The knocking continues.

Remus peeks out of the bedroom, and finds Harry already hurrying down, in his pyjamas, preceded by an enthusiastic black dog.

“Sirius! Turn back, what if somebody sees you?”

He really doesn’t want to explain his dog to Mrs Clements yet. Though he supposes it will happen sooner or later, as Mrs Clements continues to unsubtly suggest she should come to tea.

“It’s just Hermione,” Harry says. “I can tell from the knock.”

The knock does sound rather authoritative now that Harry mentions it.

And indeed, moments later Hermione Granger is in their kitchen—followed by Ron Weasley, of course. Her hair is out in a wispy black cloud, and she’s wearing dark green robes that give Remus vivid flashbacks of McGonagall.

“Good morning Harry, Remus,” she looks down at Padfoot, who is wagging his tail, tongue hanging out. “Padfoot.”

“All right,” Ron says. He’s only wearing jeans and a light jacket, a perfectly unassuming Muggle ensemble. “Sorry to barge in.”

“We _are_ very sorry, but I was wondering how far along you’ve gotten with the process. I brought notes.”

“Tea?” Remus says, with a pointed glance at Padfoot. “Sirius, you’re having dog food unless you turn back.”

He turns his back to retrieve their Transfiguration book, still on the kitchen table. He hears the usual, sharp crack of transformation.

“I don’t understand why I have to do all the cooking,” Sirius says. "Why are we bringing these gender roles into our relationship?"

“Those are bad,” Ron agrees, nodding. “Hermione says so all the time.”

“Oh, Ron, don't,” Hermione says. She's shed her outer robe to reveal jeans and a jumper. She's standing in front of their hallway mirror and pulling her hair up in a puff. “You do all the cooking, anyway, I think we're positively dismantling gender roles.”

Remus can hear a hint of humour in her voice, as he pulls out several rolls of parchment crowded with scribbled notes. Harry is at the sink, putting on the kettle.

“Well, we can have a chat over breakfast, how's that,” Remus says. “If you're so concerned with gender roles, I can attempt to make eggs. But we all remember how last time turned out.”

Both Harry and Sirius flinch, and then exchange a guilty glance.

“You're on bacon, I'm on eggs,” Sirius says.

“Right on,” Harry replies.

“I'll put on the toast, if you don't mind,” Ron adds, going for the cabinets.

Hermione sits down at one of their kitchen chairs, heaving a great sigh. She looks very well, her skin a healthy dark brown from the summer sun. No English sun—she and Ron are just back from a holiday in Spain, Harry said.

Hermione smiles at Remus and pulls out a wand and Accios her books.

“I've been researching, and the process is frightfully long,” she says, as Remus takes a seat beside her. “I do wonder how they managed it while still in school.”

“Commitment to mischief, of course,” Remus says, and hears Sirius laugh.

“Not getting caught was the trick,” Sirius says. “Lucky we just so happened to have an invisibility cloak.”

“I've already written to some of my contacts, so we can source mandrake leaves,” Remus says. “Though Pomona might be available to provide some, she's been keeping them ever since that incident in second year.”

“Incident,” Ron grumbles. “That's one way to put it.”

“It's good to be prepared, I suppose,” Hermione says. “Don't you think it's risky? I don’t want to put Professor McGonagall in an awkward position.”

“How do you mean?” Remus says.

“Well, she's an Animagus herself,” Hermione says. “And I know Harry went to speak to her, and no offence, Harry, but I don't trust you were entirely discreet about your intentions.”

“I didn't say anything!” Harry protests over the sizzling sound of bacon. “She doesn't know.”

“Of course you didn't,” Hermione says, peaceably. "Professor McGonagall is a very perceptive woman, though.”

“And anyway,” Harry continues. “How do you know I don't want to register?”

Hermione levels him a look, and he looks back at the bacon sheepishly.

“I could have,” he mutters.

“You won't,” Hermione replies. “It'd be stupid.” She turns to Remus. “I suppose you've advised him to keep it under wraps.”

Harry turns around to slide a cup of tea towards her. “They did.”

“Oh, good,” Hermione says, stirring sugar in. “It would be a terrible idea to register. You saw what happened last time they had a record of people to persecute.”

Ron comes around, carrying a plate of toast. He says, “Yeah, no registering. Not until Hermione is Minister for Magic, at least.”

Hermione smiles a brilliant smile at him, and Remus throws a look over his shoulder to where Sirius and Harry are still at the stove. Harry hisses when stray grease from the frying bacon hits him, and Sirius bumps into him and laughs.

“Nobody’s too keen to walk the line, are they?” Sirius says, throwing a look over his shoulder at Remus.

“Marauders,” Remus says, which is answer enough.

Harry smiles, still looking down at the bacon.

The rest of the morning is spent going over Hermione’s notes, and she starts by giving a thorough overview of why and how the Animagus spell can go wrong.

“For example,” she says. “You could get permanently stuck as half human, half animal.”

Harry looks suddenly ill. Ron looks at him worriedly for a moment, though he doesn’t, Remus notes, stop eating his bacon.

Hermione pats Harry’s hand gently. “It’s very unlikely that’ll happen,” she says. “After all, Sirius and your dad went through the entire thing when they were fifteen, and in secret. We’re much better prepared.”

“Hey now,” Sirius says. “We were _very_ prepared. James was _great_ at Transfiguration.”

“His wand was good for it,” Harry muses, pushing at his eggs. “Ollivander told me.”

Sirius’s eyes go soft, the look he gets when he thinks about James. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Hermione goes on, “So I suggest we stock up mandrake leaves in time for the next full moon, if you feel ready, Harry. It might take us a few tries, anyhow, in case you swallow or spit out your leaf at any point. Next full moon should be in…”

“Two weeks,” Remus and Sirius say, almost in unison.

Harry, Ron and Hermione look at them for a beat, before Hermione’s eyes widen minutely.

“Of course,” she says. “Thank you.”

Sirius nudges Remus’s foot underneath the table.

“That also means I can’t be with you during full moon rituals,” Remus says. “It’ll have to be just Sirius.”

Both Sirius and Harry throw him an identical confused look.

“No, Padfoot has to stay with you,” Harry says. “Ron and Hermione can be with me during the full moon.”

Harry looks so serious, frowning behind his glasses, genuinely earnest. That concerned gentleness doesn’t belong to James _or_ Sirius, who take on worry as they would a dragon—fiercely.

“And besides, you both can be there during the lightning storm in the final step,” Hermione says reasonably.

Remus sighs. “All right,” he says. “But you must promise you will come get Sirius if you need us. I’ll be safe enough with the Wolfsbane, I can afford to be left to my own devices for a few hours.”

Sirius, of course, looks unconvinced, since these days he is even more determined not to let Remus spend a full moon alone.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry says. “We’ve gotten into plenty of trouble by ourselves before, haven’t we?”

Remus huffs, taking a sip of his tea.

“Marauders,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I dislike some (if not most) of the extra content shared through Pottermore, I must mention that the details of the Animagus spell are all from _Short Stories from Hogwarts of Heroism, Hardship and Dangerous Hobbies_ , by way of the [wiki page.](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Animagus#cite_ref-PP_3-0)
> 
> A heartfelt thanks everyone who's left kudos and/or comments so far <3


	4. First Attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I need to stop making promises as to posting time, because I keep missing it! Christmas holidays are very busy, in my defence.
> 
> Things get a little steamier in this one [eyes emoji]

The mandrake leaves arrive a week later, and with it, the first effects of the full moon.

Sirius insists on having Harry pop one in his mouth right away.

“Trust me,” Sirius says. “You don’t want to have your first go on the night of the full moon.”

So Harry takes one of the round, shiny green leaves and puts it cautiously in his mouth. Almost immediately he gags, and spits it right back out.

“Merlin!” he cries, coughing profusely.

Remus hides his mouth behind his hand, and Sirius laughs.

“Peter did exactly the same thing when—”

He stops abruptly, and there is silence for a long beat.

“Er,” Harry says. “How am I meant to keep that in my mouth for a month when it tastes like _that?_ ”

Sirius starts, woken from his contemplation of a particularly intriguing knot in the wooden kitchen table.

“Right,” he says. “Well, your mouth goes numb after a while.”

“Oh,” Harry says. His mouth twists. “Brilliant.” And he goes to spit into the sink and rinse his mouth.

A letter arrives from the Headmistress of Hogwarts the day after, addressed to _Harry Potter, His Room, Beech Cottage, Heron Downs._ Harry puzzles over it for long moments, before he passes it on to Sirius and Remus.

They bend their heads together over it. It reads:

_Mr Potter,_

_I hope this finds you well. In reference to our last conversation, I am sending literature on the course of studies needed for a qualification in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Needless to say, a post at Hogwarts is an honour that requires the highest level of preparation and merit. Do not keep us waiting long._

_Keep us appraised of your progress._

_Minerva McGonagall  
Headmistress  
Order of Merlin, First Class  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_P.S. In the month ahead, I advise sugary and spicy foods._  
  


“How does she _know?_ ” Harry asks.

“She knows everything, Old Minnie,” Sirius says. “You probably gave yourself away, like Hermione said.”

“I said _nothing_ ,” Harry protests.

“My question,” Sirius says. “Is _why_ she never gave _us_ this piece of advice!”

“Probably just to see you squirm,” Remus says. “You looked green for a straight month. It was very entertaining.”

“Everyone thinks you’re such a saint, Moony,” Sirius says. “Nobody knows you’re secretly a sadist.”

Remus doesn’t reply, but he does look up at Sirius through his lashes, and very much enjoys the look he gets in return.

The restlessness starts the next day. At work, it just means hyper-focusing on certain tasks, and having way too much energy to simply sit behind the counter and read. Business is starting to pick up a little, thanks to Mrs Clements's kind words, but it is still a quiet town, and it is a quiet business. Remus finds himself pacing, or going over stock, or shelving, or rearranging the window display.

At home, it means cleaning. Sirius sees the signs almost immediately, having roomed with him for longer than they've been lovers. Harry is a little startled, at first, when Remus snaps at him about leaving his shoes in the middle of the hallway.

“Sorry, Remus,” he says.

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus says, taking a deep breath. “No, _I'm_ sorry. I just. It's not hard to put them in their place, is it?”

“It's all right, Harry,” Sirius says. “It's not you.”

“Oh,” Harry says. Then his eyes widen a little. “Oh, right.”

It's not so bad he can't keep it in control. He’d taken significant pride in not letting the pre-moon symptoms affect his teaching, or his work. If anything, when he'd been busy with grading and lesson plans, it had upped his productivity.

But then there are other things.

He wakes up on the Monday before the full moon with an itch underneath his skin. He feels overwarm, a little languid, and still, always, restless.

He's also hard.

This had been frustrating for a long time—the need for release. He'd ignored it, or made do. It wasn't a necessity, not quite.

It’s just—he doesn’t need to ignore it anymore.

He turns towards Sirius, who’s sprawled out across the bed.

It's been a good night, Remus thinks. Sirius has slept through it.

It's not selfish, is it?

“For the love of Merlin, Moony,” Sirius said, the first time this happened. They'd been sixteen, hot-blooded enough that Remus's eagerness hadn't been very different from his usual urge to get into Sirius's pants in the first place. “Don't be such a bloody martyr all the time. There's worse things a bloke can suffer than morning sex, you know?”

So Remus dispels the faint guilty feelings, the self-flagellation that is always just around the corner, and plasters himself against Sirius's side.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand reaches up to spread low on Sirius's belly. He stretches his neck to brush his lips against Sirius's jaw, and presses a dry kiss to it. Then another, just underneath, nosing away Sirius's hair to do it. This one he makes a little wet, a quick touch of tongue. His hand rubs a slow circle, and his fingers trace the gap between shirt hem and pants, where Sirius is soft and sensitive.

“Sirius,” he says, a low murmur. Sirius makes a sound in his throat, something half-questioning, curious.

Remus says again, “Sirius.” And he runs his teeth lightly along the spot right behind Sirius's ear. It's a careful, calculated motion. Sirius likes biting and being bitten, and it's always a stomach-curling, terrifying thing to indulge him.

“Moony,” Sirius finally says, and turns his head to chase after Remus's mouth. Noses brushing, mouths lingering against each other. “‘S that time of the month?”

“Yes,” Remus says. His hand has wandered up Sirius's shirt properly now, scratching lightly at the sleep-warm skin.

“Okay,” Sirius says, and kisses him again. Remus leaves his night-sour mouth for the irresistible warmth of his neck again, and leaves wet, innocuous kisses there.

“Come over here, now, Moony,” Sirius says, tugging at him. “Don't tease, after all that.”

Remus, given enthusiastic leave, shifts to climb on top of Sirius, sliding between his legs.

_I should be here all the time_ , he thinks. _Right here._

“I don't know why you ever leave,” Sirius says. Remus doesn't know whether he's talked aloud, of if Sirius just _knows_ , after all this time.

It doesn't matter. Heat is quickly building between them. Sirius's hands slide up his shirt and scratch, firmer than Remus ever allows himself to be. It makes Remus bury a sharp noise in Sirius's neck, where the kisses have turned into panting against Sirius's skin.

His hips hitch involuntarily, grinding an obvious erection against Sirius's hip. Sirius used to always be hard in the mornings, and it takes him a little longer to get there these days. Remus doesn't linger on thoughts of why. It’s a good morning.

“Good,” Sirius says. He sighs, still a little sleepy. “Just like that, darling.”

Remus allows himself to grind lazily, like they're still teenagers stealing a fumble behind the greenhouses or between the shut curtains of Sirius's bed in the Gryffindor dormitory. Sirius takes hold of his hair, and pulls him back into another kiss—more heated than the last, Sirius's tongue pushing languidly into his mouth and licking across the roof of it, behind Remus's teeth, making his thighs shake and his hips grind down harder.

But it isn't all Remus wants, not at all. These mornings are an amorphous mass of need, it's true, but a lot of the time it's about heat, and closeness, and Sirius's smell.

Sirius had smelled good to Remus in the first years of their friendship, but his scent had sharpened after he’d become an Animagus. Time and familiarity and desire, and the scent of Remus and sex on him, had made it into something irresistible. In the years after Sirius—in-between Sirius, as it were—he'd come to mourn it, along with all the rest of his life. And he'd come to know that he'd had it good, because not all partners had a nose almost as good as his.

“Dog nose,” Sirius had liked to joke. He'd smiled his sharp, toothy grin at Remus, and waggled his eyebrows in a move that shouldn't have worked but did.

Remus pries himself from Sirius's arms, though Sirius pulls his hair in protest.

“Where are you going?” he asks, a little slurred.

Remus doesn't reply, but makes his meaning clear by ducking underneath the covers and kissing Sirius's belly. It's dark and warm in here, a little like a burrow, and their scent is stronger. He feels Sirius lift the covers to peek at Remus making his way downwards. The rush of cold air is unpleasant, but the scent doesn't suffer for it.

Everything in this house smells like them now. The thought is pleasing, and makes something growl within him, low in his belly.

"Oh, fuck yes," Sirius says. At the growling, or the impeding blowjob Remus doesn't know.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Sirius's underwear (which is all he, maddeningly, wears to sleep) and pulls down. He's on Sirius almost as soon as he springs free, licking his way up the shaft, and swallowing down.

Sirius is only half-hard, but making a valiant effort to get all the way there. It takes a little while, but Remus doesn't mind. If anything, it appeases the need, this morning. He stays under the covers a long time, Sirius keening above him and fisting the bedding, pulling Remus's hair, thighs trembling by Remus's ears.

When Remus emerges, he feels flushed and satisfied, and still incredibly hard.

Sirius’s chest is splotched red, heaving, and his hair is a tangled black mess on the pillow. That is also immensely satisfying to see. He grins at Remus, and reaches to pull him up and into a kiss. He bites Remus’s lip sharply, making him throb.

“Sirius,” Remus whines.

“Yeah,” Sirius says. “I know, darling.”

He’d always liked to keep going, Sirius had, drawing sensations to their breaking point, until he was shaking with overstimulation and too tired to continue. They don’t do that as much anymore, but the week before the full moon is always different. Everything is heightened for Remus, and he thinks maybe Sirius has started feeling these things more keenly too.

At any rate, he draws Remus back between his legs, and arches into him, making a high, almost surprised noise in his mouth at the friction.

“Go on now,” he says. “Take it.”

So Remus does.

Afterwards, both of them a little sweaty and loose-limbed from it, he lays his head in the crook of Sirius’s neck, and lets him pet his tangled hair.

Sirius sighs heavily, and Remus feels the slow up-and-down of his chest underneath his ear, and the steady thumping of his heartbeat.

“Sometimes I think,” Sirius says, scratching behind Remus’s ear. “About how lucky we are.”

Remus hums in assent, drawing idle patterns on Sirius’s chest.

Sirius turns his face, nuzzles Remus’s sweaty hair, and drops a kiss on his forehead.

“Lucky,” he repeats, firmly, less a statement of fact and more a vow.

Remus reckons they’re due some luck, anyhow.

*

The night before the full moon is quiet. Remus’s energy, during the week, tends to ebb into exhaustion the day before, and Sirius is used to the way his head lolls against his shoulder. Remus tries to rally all through the day It’s a slow one, fortunately, only a trickle of customers coming into the shop.

Padfoot spends the day curled around Remus’s feet under the counter in the shop. He lays his head in Remus’s lap, and even gathers a few pats from friendly neighbours.

Mrs Clements comes in around three, bringing a bag of scones, and calls Padfoot a handsome boy. Sirius knew he liked her for a reason.

“Oh, Remus,” Mrs Clements says. She has finally caved and started calling them by their first names, after Remus repeatedly asked. “Are you sure you’re all right, love?”

Remus looks a little worse for wear. The bags under his eyes are darker than usual, his skin pale and a little sallow, and he moves slowly, trying to mask the shaking of his hands. It’s part moon symptoms, part anxiety.

Padfoot whines softly and trots back to Remus’s side. Remus slips a hand into his fur, behind his ear, and holds on tightly.

“I’m just a little under the weather, Constance,” Remus says, with a slight smile.

Mrs Clements, inexplicably, nods. “I heard there’s a bug going round. Oh, Remus, I do hope it hasn’t got you.”

Remus laughs, a low, kind laugh. “It just might have, Constance.”

Mrs Clements makes him tea with the little kettle in the backroom of the shop, and Padfoot smiles a doggy smile up at her in clear approval.

When she leaves, Padfoot ducks in the back and Sirius emerges, carrying two scones freshly warmed by a spell, and butter Summoned from their kitchen.

“Bless Constance,” he says, offering the steaming scone to his pale and wan boyfriend. “She got you the perfect excuse.”

“Won’t work every month,” Remus grumbles, clutching at his tea like it is a blessing.

“It’s all right, Remus,” Sirius says, going as far as buttering the scone _himself,_ then shoving it into Remus’s hands. “This is why we moved to a Muggle village in the first place—do you really think Constance Clements’s first assumption when you get sick every month is going to be _werewolf?_ ”

Remus smiles to himself. “Don’t think so, no. Mrs Singh might have suspicions, though.”

“Too clever by half, Mrs Singh.”

“We will simply have to move, I suppose,” Remus says.

“Nonsense,” Sirius replies. “We can just Obliviate the lot of them.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but Sirius reckons he does it affectionately after all.

*

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Really, Sirius. I just need to put the bloody thing in my mouth.”

Sirius makes an excellent effort of holding in the very inappropriate joke that comes to him spontaneously. It wouldn’t do.

“Well, the trick is to clap your hand over your mouth while you do it so you can’t spit it out. Wait a few minutes like that until you can stand the taste, or until your mouth goes numb.

“Got it,” Harry says, then lets out a nervous little laugh. “Why am I doing this again?”

He looks ready to bolt, which means he looks stubborn. He’s never known Harry to run in the face of danger, and this is just one more instance of it. Sirius clasps his shoulder, and earns a wobbly smile in reply.

“That’s the thing. You just gotta remember why,” Sirius says. “And hey, it’s still early enough to stop.”

Harry nods, but the words, the offer to back out, only seem to steel his resolve.

“I thought—” he starts. “At first I thought it would be good to have this to—that it’d be a connection back to my Dad.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything, only nods at his words, offering no word of judgement.

It seems like the right thing to do because Harry carries on. “Then I thought maybe it could be a connection to you—to you and Remus. And then I thought maybe Ron and Hermione and I could do this together.”

He takes a deep breath. They’re in the sitting room, curled in the two burgundy armchairs Sirius insisted go in front of the fire. They’re second-hand and it shows. They’re well-loved. They remind him of the common room in Gryffindor Tower.

“But then I realised,” Harry continues, the light from the fire reflected into his glasses. “That wasn’t why I wanted it. I just wanted—I wanted to be able to be myself but not… myself.” He huffs, and smiles a little, like he knows it _doesn’t_ make sense, not in an obvious way. “I wanted to be _me_ , just not… Harry Potter.”

“When I turn into Padfoot,” Sirius says, after a long beat of silence. “Everything is sharper—the world, I mean. But in my head… it’s quieter, in my head.”

He squeezes Harry’s shoulder once, and Harry finally looks at him, like Sirius really can give him any answers. When Sirius barely knows what to do with the noise in his head, half the time.

_Welcome to parenthood,_ Sirius tells himself, and smiles.

“It makes perfect sense,” he tells Harry, and Harry smiles back. Then, to break the tension, “Just make sure you remember that when you _really_ want to spit out that mandrake leaf.”

Harry laughs, less brittle than before.

They settle in for the long night ahead.

*

Sirius shakes Remus's shoulder gently. Hates to wake him—he looks even more tired than he did this afternoon when he settled in for a nap. If Sirius had his way, he'd keep him curled up in their bed and safe from the full moon even now. But Remus had said to wake him, and so.

“Remus.”

“What?”

“It's time to go, darling.”

The way Remus blinks slowly and frowns at him is equal parts adorable and heart-breaking.

_This is what you've set yourself up for, Sirius_ , he tells himself.

Best damn decision his idiot fifteen-year-old self ever made.

“Oh,” Remus says, and pulls himself up, groaning. He's still dressed underneath the sheets, and he goes to stand in front of a window for a moment, staring out at the empty field behind Beech Cottage. The woods line the edge of their property. The real estate agent had tried to sell the communion with nature to them, but it had been clear the woods being that close had lost her customers before.

_It's all right_ , Sirius had almost told her. _We're the danger in the woods._

He looks at Remus, thin and hunched, the light of the sunset painting his frail outline in the window. He reckons this is to be the last peaceful moment of the night.

He goes to lay his hands on Remus's hips, and kisses the back of his neck, where he's warm and smells of shampoo and laundry soap.

“Let's go,” Remus says, and lets himself be pulled into a side-along. They Apparate in the empty meadow they found months ago, miles into the woods. More than even Moony can cover comfortably in one night.

“I've taken it,” Remus says. “It should be alright.”

“Of course it'll be alright,” Sirius says. His hands are still on Remus's hips, feeling the fine tremors in his skin. The sky is rapidly growing dark, and Remus is drawing farther and farther away from him.

Sirius lets him go when he pulls away, taking a few steps into the meadow. He knows the exact moment Remus feels the moon, sees it in the sudden seizing of his shoulders. Sirius shifts into Padfoot, and settles in for the worst part.

It has been over twenty years, and still, Sirius will never be used to Remus screaming under the moon.

In his animal body, it is easier to deal with—his ears flatten against his head, and he crouches down, belly against the earth. He can shake, and whine down in his throat in sympathetic pain.

And when Moony's howl finally rises up into the sky, Padfoot can howl with him.

Moony turns towards him at last, yellow eyes piercing the night, lips drawn back against his teeth.

Padfoot is a big dog, but Moony is larger than any wolf has a right to be. His fur is dark grey and streaked with white and he stands tall above Padfoot.

Like every moon before, the moment Moony snarls at him, Padfoot rolls to his back and offers his belly up.

Things are different now. Moony comes to snuffle at him, and nudges him back on his front with his nose. He then tackles Padfoot back into the grass, the bastard, and they tumble like that for a few long moments, Moony growling low in his throat, and Padfoot half-heartedly trying to get the upper hand.

When they stop tussling, however, and Moony turns his yellow eyes to Padfoot, they are clear. He remembers Moony’s bloodlust in their younger years, how hard it was to reign it in, how it took Prongs’s bulk to drive him away from people some nights. How there was nothing of Remus behind his eyes.

But Remus is there, now. Inside the wolf that is inside him. Moony looks at him with Remus’s eyes and lolls his tongue out, and then howls.

Despite everything, Moony is still the pack leader, and so Sirius follows, howling with him.

It is time to run.

*

Remus wakes in the grass, the dew cool against his skin and every single one of his bones screaming at him.

Physically speaking, the transformation isn’t any easier on him. But at least it’s all fatigue, and no self-mauling anymore.

“Don’t move,” Sirius says, and bundles him up in a duvet, cover-less and bearing some permanent grass stains from last time.

Sirius is kneeling in the grass at his side, dressed just like last night, in acid wash jeans and a dark jacket. The morning is chilly, even though it’s June.

“Are you alright to side-along, darling?” Sirius says. Remus would balk at being coddled, but it’s been years, and Sirius accompanies the endearment with a grin, like Remus is just _choosing_ to have a lay in the grass, naked, at five in the morning.

“No, Pads,” Remus says, throat raw from howling. “I’m just lying here, enjoying the sunrise.”

“It’s a pretty morning,” Sirius says, that infuriating grin still on his face. He smooths Remus’s hair back a few times in purposeless affection, and Remus is shameless when he leans into it.

“Can’t be lying about all morning, Lupin,” Sirius says, “Things to do, people to see.”

“Harry,” Remus says, all he needs to say.

“Of course,” Sirius replies. He rearranges Remus carefully, so he’s lying half in Sirius’s lap.

Moments later, the dewy meadow is empty, the birds chattering loudly at the sharp crack of two men disappearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much to everyone who's left comments and kudos <3


	5. Tupperwares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> I can't believe this fic will finish posting in 2020, that's like three years since I started writing it.

Mrs Clements walks into _Moony’s_ at two o’clock on Friday, expecting to find Mr Lupin ready with their now-usual Friday tea. Mr Lupin closes early on Fridays, and they have taken on this new tradition in the past few weeks. Mrs Clements has come to enjoy it very much. Sometimes Padfoot, Mr Lupin’s big black dog, accompanies them. Sometimes Mr Black does.

Mr Black is keeping her appraised on the remodelling of Beech Cottage, and furthermore is always interested in local news. And it’s always nice to discuss literature with Mr Lupin, or talk about this or that issue raised at Channing Street Shop-owners meetings. He seems to understand the importance of planning the Christmas decorations well in advance.

But when she walks into the shop that afternoon, she finds neither Mr Black nor Mr Lupin. It’s young Harry at the counter, smiling at her and waving.

He looks a little tired, the poor dear, and there’s a makeshift sign on the counter that says: _Sorry! I have no voice today :(_

Harry raises a small dry-erase board, and scribbles a quick message, which he holds up to her with a smile.

_Hello, Mrs Clements! Moony said you’d come by._

“Oh, you poor thing,” Mrs Clements says immediately.

Harry smiles again, and waves a hand in a modest dismissal. He fishes a small, rolled-up piece of paper and hands it over to Mrs Clements.

The paper in question is curiously thick, nothing she’s ever handled herself. How odd. It’s written in Mr Lupin’s neat, loopy handwriting, in green ink.

_Dear Constance,_

_I’m very sorry to miss our Friday tea! I’m afraid the bug did catch up with me, and I am on bed rest under Sirius’s orders. He has kindly stayed behind to help, and to rest himself, as it has been an unfortunate night for all of us. Poor Harry has also been affected, as you can tell by his missing voice. He’s otherwise perfectly fine!_

_Please bring our warmest regards to Mrs Singh, Stacey, and your Howard._

_All my best,_

_Remus Lupin_

“Oh, I’m ever so sorry to hear,” Mrs Clements coos. “Poor dears, under house arrest! And you, Harry! Stay right where you are.”

Harry blinks at her owlishly as she ducks back out the door and marches down towards _Clements & Singh._

“Ginger and lemon tea!” she declares. “And a Lemsip. Now!”

“What’s got you in such a hurry?” Mrs Singh grumbles, even as she fetches the requested tea. “We have no Lemsip. We’re not a chemist, you know?”

“The boys across the street are ill!” Mrs Clements declares, with the due gravity.

“What, all of them?” Stacey says. “Even Harry?”

“Harry’s lost his voice,” Mrs Clements clarifies. “Mr Lupin is bedridden, and Mr Black is home assisting him. From the sounds of it, neither of them slept a wink.”

Stacey and Mrs Singh exchange a look.

“Well,” Mrs Singh says.

“Poor boys,” Stacey says.

Stacey manages to find a Lemsip in her bag, and the ginger and lemon tea is actually fished out of the darkest recesses of Mrs Clements’s own bag.

Once back at _Moony’s_ she finds Harry shelving and tidying the reading nook. What a nice, responsible boy.

His eyes look a little glassy, now that Mrs Clements takes a good look at him. He’s halfway through raising his hand to greet her again, when she darts forward and presses her hand against his forehead.

“No fever. Good,” she says. “I brought ginger and lemon tea, and a Lemsip.”

Harry’s eyes widen in sudden panic. He shakes his head and makes for the dry-erase board.

_No Lemsip, please,_ he writes.

“Are you sure, love?” Mrs Clements says. “You don’t have a fever so I’m not inclined to force your hand. But you should take the ginger and lemon anyway.”

Harry smiles again, still a little embarrassed. Bless him.

_We should have honey in the back,_ he writes, holding up the board to her.

It’s a very pleasant afternoon tea with Harry, after all. But Mrs Clements is already planning a proper rescue mission.

*

“Constance, you can’t!”

“Nan, you can’t just show up unannounced, that’s the first thing you ever taught me!”

“I will _not_ show up unannounced. I mentioned stopping by several times, and I even mentioned it to Harry today!”

“And he said _there was no need._ ”

“Oh, come now, Mrs Singh. The poor boys can’t be expected to get through this with no assistance at all!”

“Last I checked they were all adults.”

“You won’t change her mind, Mrs Singh. She’s made it up.”

*

Harry looks absolutely miserable, on Friday morning. It's just as well, since none of them have exactly had a good night.

“Well?” Sirius asks. “How'd it go?”

Harry looks up at him, frowning. He opens his mouth. Nothing but a prolonged wheeze makes it out.

“Oh no,” Sirius says. He tries very hard not to sound amused. Honest. “Your throat’s numb?”

Harry nods, the picture of wretchedness.

“Poor Sprog,” Sirius says. “That's a new one. We all got numb mouth, but we could all speak, more or less.”

Harry scowls, affronted. He stands up and starts frantically looking for something to write on.

_Was that meant to make me feel better?_ he writes, finally, on a spare bit of parchment.

“Well... no,” Sirius says. “But it'll be a great story to tell your kids one day.”

Harry rolls his eyes. He writes, _Oh, so I can tell them what a great idea it is to become an Animagus._

Sirius shrugs. "You've got a month to change your mind."

Harry sighs, long and tired, and lets himself fall into a kitchen chair again.

_How's Remus?_ he writes, finally.

“Been worse,” Sirius admits, heaving his own sigh. “Been better. Sleeping now, probably won't be up before the afternoon. He needs to catch up on his rest.”

_What about you?_

“Oh, me?” Sirius laughs. “Psh. I caught a full, what? Two hours? That's plenty to get me to tonight. I might catch a kip in the afternoon, but I want to be close to Remus in case he needs something. Speaking of which.”

The problem suddenly strikes him. Shit. The shop.

“You can't go into the shop like that,” Sirius says, and groans. “I'm gonna have to go in and post a sign, or something. Tell Mrs Clements before she storms the cottage when she sees nobody is in for afternoon tea.”

_I can still go_ , Harry writes.

“What, like that?” Sirius replies. “You can't talk!”

_I can write_ , Harry says. _How hard can it be?_

“I'm already going crazy and it's been five minutes talking to you like that!” One of Sirius's hands is in his hair. This was a terrible idea. This entire Muggle village thing was a bad idea. They should move back to London and live the rest of their days leeching off Sirius's inheritance.

_Other people don't have the patience of a hyperactive hyena_ , Harry writes. There's a very Potter grin on his face, which makes him look handsome and insufferable. Sirius is equal parts proud and outraged.

“The cheek of you!” Sirius says. “Okay—fine. So long as you're ready to field off Mrs Clements. You know what? Just ask her to explain to you what beef Harriet Fisher has with Suzie Perkins. That'll get her talking for at least half an hour and you'll just have to nod and look outraged. Clutch your pearls, if you must.”

Harry looks down at his own plain red t-shirt, and raises an eyebrow. The kid is good.

“Maybe we can get you some of Old Mother Black's pearls,” Sirius says. “Make it realistic.”

Harry's eyes widen in faint terror. He scribbles a single, stark, _No_.

“Alright, well,” Sirius says. “Your loss.”

Harry starts writing something that seems to be _strangle me in my sleep_ when he runs out of parchment.

“We need a better arrangement for the Muggles,” Sirius says. “And meanwhile, let me teach you a spell.”

He soon has Harry materialising shimmering purple words into the air as soon as he can think them, which does make everything smoother, but also makes Sirius feel like he’s watching one of those foreign Muggle movies that Remus likes. The ones with subtitles.

He sends Harry on his way at 9 AM sharp, and stumbles his way up the steps to his bedroom, where Remus slumbers. He did say he would be alert to take care of things, today, but the truth is that the warm bed, with Remus in it, is an impossibly strong siren call. Sirius is bloody tired. He’s not seventeen anymore, and he can’t do double Potions on Friday after a night running in the Forbidden Forest.

Remus is snoring lightly, which is a good sign. Deep, restful sleep. He’s also sprawled wide, and Sirius has to remove one skinny arm from his side of the bed, before he can slide in.

Remus makes a low snuffling sound when he feels Sirius move beside him, but he stubbornly throws his arm out exactly where it was before. This now means it’s slung around Sirius’s waist.

Sirius takes this chance to move closer, gather his exhausted Moony in his arms. Remus doesn’t even twitch, apart from a small sound of protest, and settles against Sirius without once waking up.

It’s really no surprise when all of Sirius’s plans come tumbling down.

Harry Apparates in at three o’clock after his tea with Mrs Clements.

This time, he can croak out in a wheezy voice, “Honey works.”

“Oh, goody,” Sirius says, feeling much better after his nap with Moony. Remus is still resting. He will probably keep dozing until tomorrow, if Sirius has anything to do with it. He might try to get some food into him later, however.

At half five, the doorbell rings.

Sirius jumps at the sound of it, and drops a plate with a loud crashing sound. His ears ring for a moment. He’s pretty sure he’s only heard the sound of their doorbell once or twice before—nobody uses it very much, people tend to Floo in more often.

“Alright, Sirius, old girl,” Sirius says, casting a quick Reparo on the broken plate. “No need to get your knickers in a twist. It’s just the door.”

What follows is, of course, the realisation that nobody uses the doorbell to call on them, and so whoever is at the door is most definitely bad news.

Sirius keeps a hand on his wand, even as he stretches his neck slightly from the kitchen window, from which he can see the porch and driveway.

Constance Clements is on their porch. She's bearing what look like several Tupperwares of food.

Sirius jumps back from the kitchen window before Mrs Clements can see him snoop out of his own house like a creep.

“Shit,” he says, with feeling. “Shit. Shit. Harry!”

He hurries into the hallway just in time to hear Harry thundering down the stairs. When he appears on the last landing, he looks oddly dishevelled and panicked. His wand is out.

“What?” he rasps. “Them?”

Sirius immediately realises his mistake.

“Oh, no. Harry, it's all right,” Sirius hurries to explain. “Well—not _all_ right. Mrs Clements is _here_!”

Harry's shoulders deflate visibly, and he slumps against the banister.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Sirius!”

“I know, I know,” Sirius says. “Sorry. What do we do?”

Harry looks at him quizzically, then makes a gesture towards the door, an eloquent, _Answer the door?_

“We can't let her _in!_ ” Sirius whispers back furiously. “I told her we were redoing the sitting room and veranda! She will definitely know the house is done if she comes in here!”

Harry frowns, and seems to think mightily for a second. He opens his mouth and lets out a long wheeze that sounds kind of like _maybe_ and then looks put out. It seems he's used up his words for the moment.

He waves his wand, and purple letters appear in front of him. _Maybe let her into the kitchen only?_

“Oh, and what will I say? Awfully sorry, Constance, but I will have to relegate you to this one room of the house only?”

_Remodelling_ , Harry writes. _Not fit to be seen by polite company._

Sirius raises his eyebrow, suddenly stunned because it sounds... sensible.

“That... might work,” he says. “Wow, where did you learn to sound like a posh Muggle lady?”

Harry rolls his eyes, and smirks at him, looking like entirely the opposite of a posh Muggle lady. He writes, _Aunt Petunia._

“Right,” Sirius says. “She sounds bloody lovely.”

_Mrs Clements waiting_ , Harry writes

“Oh, fuck!” Sirius swears, and runs to actually open the door.

Mrs Clements is patiently waiting on their doormat—a simple _Welcome Home_ with dog paw prints that Sirius found hilarious when he bought it. She smiles cheerily at him when she sees him.

“Oh, Sirius dear!” she says. “I'm ever so sorry to bother you without calling first, but I realised I didn't have your telephone number!”

_Shit_ , Sirius thinks. _That's what I forgot._

They don't have a telephone number, or a _telephone,_ and Sirius is quite sure he will be rubbish at using it when they do get one. But it might have been nice to get a word of warning, if Mrs Clements was threatening to invade.

“Constance, it's so lovely to see you,” he says, breaking out his most charming smile. “I'm so sorry—I'm not sure the house is fit for polite company.”

“Oh!” Mrs Clements huffs. “Not at all—I understand. I promise you I will be in and out in a mo’. I just wanted to drop off some provisions. Home remedies, you know? I heard your Remus was a little under the weather.”

“That's ever so kind,” Sirius says, sweating a little under his collar. He blames the half-hearted start of the summer weather. “You could come through the kitchen if you'd like? The sitting room is impracticable, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, that'd be lovely, thank you so much, dear!”

Mrs Clements strides in through the hall, and Sirius notes proudly that Harry had the presence of mind to shut the door to the sitting room. He herds Mrs Clements gently into the kitchen, where she drops off her several Tupperwares. They also find Harry himself there, already pulling out tea paraphernalia.

“Hi,” he rasps, waving at Mrs Clements. He points the kettle in her general direction, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh, I shouldn't, we just had a cuppa,” Mrs Clements says, even as she sits down at the kitchen table.

“Nonsense. We'll both have one, Harry, thank you,” Sirius says, and starting unpiling the Tupperwares. There's a sort of golden brown, foggy soup with chicken bits in one. A suspicious-looking liquid purple concoction in another. A third is obviously a casserole of some description.

“The tisane has honey in it, it seemed to work so well for poor Harry’s throat," Mrs Clements explains. “The soup I thought might help Remus, if he's feeling poorly. My Tim—you know, Stacey's dad—used to be ill quite often as a child, and that was all he could keep down.”

Despite the earlier panic, Sirius is seized by a sudden warmth and overwhelming gratefulness for all Muggles, and Constance Clements in particular.

“Constance,” he says. “That's so thoughtful, I—I don't know what to say.”

“Oh, that's quite all right, Sirius, dear,” she says, and reaches out to gently pat his hand. “You're part of Heron Downs now. Never let it be said I've let a member of the community alone in times of trouble!”

“You're a gift,” Sirius says, intensely sincere, and also trying not to be a complete old maid and start crying. It's been a long full moon. His diversion is asking, “So what's the casserole about, anyway?”

Mrs Clements smiles slyly. “That's for you, of course. I suspect you don't particularly want to cook right now. Also!”

She goes rustling into her big green bag, which Sirius has seen produce all kinds of wonders. He's not proven wrong—she pulls out a bottle of red wine.

“A treat,” she says, and follows it with a block of Galaxy Honeycomb Chocolate. “For you boys.”

“Constance,” Sirius says. “I think I'm going to cry. Stand back, I wouldn't want to get tears on your nice jumper.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs Clements says. “There, there, now.”

Just then, there's a pitiful shuffling sound from the door, and Sirius turns around to find Remus standing at the entrance of the kitchen. He's wearing his pyjamas, the blue flannel ones with a hole in the knee, and he looks bed-rumpled, tired, and somehow still utterly delicious.

Sirius might be a little sentimental right now.

“Moonshine!” he says, jumping up and taking the chance to hide how painfully soppy he was getting just now. “Up and out of bed, I see. Mrs Clements came calling.”

“Constance,” Remus stutters, looking like a deer in headlights, oblivious to Sirius trying to nudge him towards a chair. “The house—”

“I told Mrs Clements the sitting room is unfortunately off limits—you know, the mess.”

“Of course,” Remus says, finally letting himself be herded into a chair. Sirius runs a hand through his hair on instinct, smoothing it back and down. Remus looks up at him and gives him a small, tired smile. Both instinctual motions, hardly conscious. Remus’s eyes are glassy and tired, still.

“How are you feeling?” Sirius asks. Anything else can wait a moment.

“Tired,” Remus says. “Still a little achy, but it’s getting better. Pretty good, considering.”

“Brilliant,” Sirius says. It was an easy moon, then. He doesn’t say it, but he sees the same thought in Remus’s eyes. “Constance brought us some goodies, if you want to give it a go.”

“I could eat,” Remus says. His eyes stray immediately to the chocolate bar, and Sirius pointedly shoves it away.

“Moony, you fiend,” he says. “Constance made you soup, do you want all her hard work to go to waste?”

“It was no trouble, really.”

“You have to look after your health, Remus, what example are you setting for the child?”

Harry shoves the tea tray across the table at Sirius. He wheezes, “Child?”

“We have a duty of care,” Sirius confirms.

“All right, Sirius,” Remus says, leaning back against him. “Can you warm it up a little?”

Sirius smiles broadly, and drops a loud kiss on top of Remus’s head. He catches Mrs Clements’s eye when he turns to grab the Tupperware. She looks very slightly flustered, and he only makes it worse by winking at her. She blushes.

“Thank you so much, Constance, you really shouldn’t have,” Remus says, as Sirius putters about the stove trying to remember how to light it the Muggle way. Harry comes to the rescue, and in seconds they have the soup warming. Sirius sorely wishes he could just pop a Warming charm on the bloody thing.

“Nonsense!” Mrs Clements says. “I wanted to make sure you boys were all right. I’ve been around to see a bunch of other neighbours as well. Poor Lucy Perkins was puking her guts out when I went to see her this morning. It didn’t catch you in the stomach, though, did it?”

“Oh, no,” Remus says. “Fortunately no. Muscle aches and a fever, I’m afraid. And, uh, headaches.”

Mrs Clements nods, sympathetic. “Of course. Harry, you should have some of the tisane. It’s also good chilled, if you have some ice cubes in the fridge.”

Sirius abruptly remembers their fridge is not turned on.

“Oh, I’m afraid—we don’t, do we, Moony?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I’m sure Harry will be fine with it room temperature, won’t you, Harry?”

Harry wheezes his assent.

Mrs Clements says, “Oh, but do warm it at least.”

So they do, and Harry looks vaguely pained at first, trying to drink while holding the mandrake leaf in his mouth, and neither showing it nor swallowing it. Sirius does wonder how he went through afternoon tea, earlier.

He sips his own tea, listens to Mrs Clements chatter with Remus, and watches like a hawk as Remus slowly but surely gets through his soup. He’s enthusiastic in his compliments, and Mrs Clements appropriately pleased. Sirius is just struck with relief and pleasure in watching Remus eat.

He's sure it's pathological, but he's been resigned to being odd about Remus for quite a long time. He'd always liked watching him stuff his face in the Great Hall, and feeding him when he came home, in their flat, before everything. These days, it's a toss-up whether Sirius won't forget it's lunch time at all, but he's getting better. He's trying to. Watching Remus eat is still one of the things that makes him feel most grounded, like he will feel better just by making Remus feel better.

Remus's stomach doesn't have trouble putting away Mrs Clements's soup, and going back for seconds, and then reaching for the chocolate bar at last. He shoots Sirius a sly grin as he does. Colour is returning to his cheeks, and though he looks tired still, it's probably nothing a good night's sleep won't fix. It all makes Sirius want to snog him senseless. All in a day with Moony.

Sirius draws a sigh of relief. Over twenty years, and still it is such a wretched thing to see Remus suffer from the moon.

“Constance, I don't know how to thank you, this was so kind of you,” Remus says.

“No need at all,” Mrs Clements says. “Only make sure to come by for tea—all of you. This Sunday, alright?”

Sirius totally missed when they made this plan, lost mooning after Remus.

“Absolutely!” he says, smacking the table top. “Sunday it is.”

He only hopes Harry’s voice will have come back by then. If not, he’s sure it’ll be hilarious either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much to you all for your kind comments, and especially to the recurring commenters. I see you and appreciate you immensely <3


	6. Memories

Sunday tea with Mrs Clements, which sounded like an easy enough affair when Sirius agreed to it, turns out to be anything but.

It's all very pleasant. But Sirius had expected it to be the three of them, plus Constance and her husband. Howard is very kind, but he has the scintillating personality of a particularly sleepy cat. Sirius does enjoy sleepy cats, and would have been happy enough to have tea with Howard.

But of course it's not that simple. When they arrive at Mrs Clements's house, they find the entirety of the Singh family there, as well as Stacey and her parents. Sirius is folded into helping in the kitchen, because Mrs Clements identifies him as the cooking element of their household.

“Harry's quite good also, you know,” Sirius says. Is it problematic that he seems to have been declared the feminine half of the equation? Should he tell them he's terribly messy and leaves socks everywhere? That he's the effective sports person, and Remus wouldn't know how to throw a ball if his life depended on it?

He decides it probably is, but also that he should let it be. They're feeding him, after all.

He eyes an interesting curry on the stove, which he has high hopes will be spicy enough to cover up the mandrake leaves, for Harry. When he questions Mrs Singh on it, she gives him a very long-suffering look, like he has asked a very stupid question.

“It will make you cry,” she says.

“I lived with Harry's grandparents from when I was fifteen Mrs Singh,” he says. Mrs Singh still hasn't given him leave to call her by her first name, and at this point Sirius is afraid to.

He doesn't mention that he hasn't had Mrs Potter's cooking since he was twenty, and still mourns it. His tolerance for spice is probably shot to hell.

Mrs Singh is duly unimpressed. Sirius catches her later in deep conversation with Harry.

“Your parents, were they Punjabi?”

“My father was,” Harry says. “But I haven't, uh... been raised by that side of my family.”

Mrs Singh looks mutinous for half a second, then pulls him right into the kitchen, and Sirius is finally less lonely.

It's a very good day and the food is excellent, though by the end Remus is pleading mercy, having been stuck in a conversation about Muggle football for most of the night. Sirius definitely did get the better end of the bargain in the end.

But.

Sirius is lucky, now, and he knows it, and some days he wishes his body knew it too.

The crash was long coming, he knows—he's been switched on all week, trying to shoulder part of the emotional weight of the moon. Remus needed him. It was easy to keep on going while Remus needed him. But Remus feels better, and Harry's voice has returned, and suddenly Sirius isn't keeping on keeping on anymore.

He wakes up in cold sweat at two in the morning, and the darkness of their room is suddenly overwhelming. He can't hear Remus's breath for the blood rushing in his ears. For a long, terrifying moment, he can’t breathe.

At least, he makes no sound. By the time the overwhelming panic subsides enough to let him think, he realises Remus has slept through it. Thankfully. Though his heart is still thundering, and his veins are still chilled with adrenaline, he can finally think about the root of the panic.

The dream comes a little less often, a year on from the war, but it's never any less devastating when it does come. The only solution is to slip out of bed as quickly and silently as possible. He forgets his slippers, the cool floor under his feet grounding him somewhat. He pads through the dark hallway silently, to Harry's door.

The horrible mantra in his head sounds just like Bellatrix's laughter.

_He's dead. He's dead. He's dead._

When he opens the door, in the sliver of light from the waning moon, he can see Harry's tangled hair on the pillow. One of his feet has slipped out of the duvet, and the pale brown sole shines in the moonlight.

Sirius stands there, drawing slow breaths, until his heart has calmed down enough that he can hear Harry's breaths. Alive.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

He stands there a long time, quiet. He has long since stopped worrying about whether this is creepy or not. He just looks, until he can make his body believe that Harry is alive, and here, and safe.

Nights like these are easy, all things considered. His anxiety is quicker to subside with tangible, indisputable proof of reality. It grounds him quicker.

But Harry doesn't always live with them, isn't always so readily found, breathing and alive, and those nights are hardest. His restlessness usually ends up waking Remus, for better or for worse.

But Harry is alive.

*

When he saw Harry's body, hanging limply from Hagrid's arms, a year and a lifetime ago, Sirius's entire world stopped. It was Hallowe'en all over again, 1981, his life ending right in front of his eyes. He hadn't known he was screaming and running forward until he'd felt Remus's arms around his chest like iron bands.

“Sirius, you can't,” Remus said, right in his ear. “Sirius, please.”

Sirius had been briefly, incandescently enraged with him for not being beyond reason. How could he be reasonable when Harry was—Harry was—

It feels, some days, like he's still living in that moment, watching Harry's hand hang limp over Hagrid's arm. His head lolling to the side, so that Sirius could see his eyes closed, glasses crooked. Such a small detail to remember, Harry's crooked glasses.

He’d barely heard everything that followed, and he’s sure he should have died when the battle suddenly broke out, after Neville Longbottom slayed Voldermort’s twice-damned snake.

He'd torn himself from Remus's hold and thrown himself at the first Death Eater he could find, who just so happened to be his snivelling cousin-in-law Rodolphus, whom he'd sent straight to hell. The only reason he hadn't gotten himself killed in the fray, probably, had been Harry's sudden reappearance.

He'd looked—like a hallucination. Like a miracle. Battered and alive, and he'd raised a shaking hand to straighten his glasses, and he'd killed Tom Riddle.

And afterwards, as everyone else scrambled to figure out what to do, Sirius had pushed himself to the front and shoved aside anyone who stood between him and tactile proof that Harry was alive.

Harry's eyes had widened, almost panicked, when he'd caught sight of Sirius's furious face. Sirius hadn't given him time to react, and had dragged him into a crushing hug. He knew, vaguely, that he had tears on his cheeks, but it had nothing on how bloody furious he was.

“DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!” he'd shouted, right in Harry's ear. Harry had flinched, but thrown his arms up to cling back to Sirius just as fiercely. “NOT EVER. DON'T YOU DARE DO THAT AGAIN.”

“I did it, Sirius,” Harry had said. He'd looked fierce, up there, calling Voldemort by name. Alive and invincible. But he felt thin and fragile in Sirius's arms, and his voice was very quiet. “I did it.”

“YOU DID,” Sirius had said, in the same furious shout of before. “I'M SO PROUD OF YOU. YOU'RE GROUNDED.”

Harry had laughed, a watery thing in Sirius's ear. He'd said, again, “I did it, Sirius.”

Remus had been there too, his chest heaving from the fight. “Harry,” he'd said. “You did it.”

“Sirius?”

For a second he thinks Remus's voice is part of the memory—Remus's voice in his ear, broken and jagged and begging him not to be stupid, not to throw himself into the jaws of death after Harry. He'd understood only after that Remus had been as distraught as he was. But his Moony had different ways to deal with grief, and it always translated into an itching need to hold onto the things he still had first.

So he'd held onto Sirius, and then, afterwards, after everything, he’d collapsed in huge dry sobs, and Sirius had been helpless to do anything but hold him in turn.

But no, Remus is here. In 1999, in their house in Heron Downs. He looks at the spill of moonlight on the floor of Harry's bedroom, at his foot sticking out from under the covers. He feels Remus's heat at his side, the way he's leaning against Sirius's arm, forehead resting on Sirius's shoulder.

"He's safe," Sirius says.

Remus's voice is soft and sleepy, "He is, Sirius. It's real."

"You promise?" Sirius says.

"Always," Remus replies. "Are you ready to come back to bed?"

"Just a minute," Sirius says.

They stay on the door for just a minute more. Then another.

*

Harry’s mandrake leaf doesn’t make it to the following full moon. He accidentally swallows it two weeks in, and comes through the Floo furious and yelling.

“I swallowed the bloody leaf!” he yells. And then, “Ron and Hermione are getting married!”

Which, Remus supposes, is a compelling enough reason to swallow your mandrake leaf.

“Now?” is Sirius’s intelligent contribution.

“No,” Harry says, and collapses on the sofa. “In a few years, they say. After Ron’s made Auror, probably. Hermione wants to have a few years’ experience in the Ministry, also. But _still._ ”

“Is this… bad news?” Sirius asks. Remus has noted his efforts to be more emotionally accessible and empathetic. It makes him hide a smile into his hand.

“No,” Harry says, frowning. Remus sits on the sofa beside him. “It’s great news. I’m just… a bit surprised, is all.”

“Understandable,” Remus says.

“Also, sorry to hear about the leaf,” Sirius says.

Harry groans, and buries his face in his hands.

They start the process again the following moon. It’s a bit of a rougher moon, and Remus is out of commission for two days. Lest they attract another visit from Mrs Clements, Harry tells her they’re on holiday for a couple of days.

Harry’s throat doesn’t go numb this time, and he doesn’t have to pretend to have a cold.

He also seems to have become used to the taste. His first week with the mandrake leaf, he was sullen the entire time, a little green at the gills, and clearly incapable of letting it sit comfortably in his mouth.

This time around he’s grimly determined, looking like Lily before a particularly difficult test, like she’d decided it was a point of personal pride to do well. Harry’s a gentler soul, but there’s that same steel in him, that same stubbornness.

Also, Sirius has been trying to give him tips.

“Tuck it into your cheek,” he says. “And chew on the opposite side.”

And, “If you stick it to the roof of your mouth while you talk nobody can really see it, but it’s easier to accidentally swallow it if you’re not careful.”

About a week after Ron and Hermione announce their engagement, Remus finds Harry in front of the fire, playing chess against the board. His own pieces keep arguing with him, and Harry sighs and goes along with their suggestions, to mostly disastrous results.

“I think your rook is mutinous,” Remus says, sitting across the board from him. The fire is at his back, warm and comforting.

“Sirius says he’s in love with the opposite queen,” Harry says. His knight is locked in combat with a pawn and getting soundly beaten. “Which is why he keeps sabotaging us.”

“A likely story,” Remus says.

He watches Harry’s side lose, until Harry heaves a sigh and starts to put away the board to loud protests from the pieces.

“We need a new board,” Harry says, which causes more enraged shouts.

“Maybe we should start playing with Muggle pieces,” Remus suggests.

Harry, finally, cracks a smile. It makes Remus realise just how sombre he’d been before.

“The quiet would be a change,” he says.

Remus likes to think he’s a little better at talking to young people than Sirius is—it was his job, once upon a time. But it’s… different, when it’s a kid that is, on some level, his. He knows Harry better than any student he’s taught, and yet somehow that makes him feel way too close, and rather too afraid to make a wrong move.

He doesn’t say anything, which is a choice in itself. Letting Harry come to him.

“I keep thinking,” Harry says, once all the pieces are put away. “If Ginny and I had stayed together, if we’d also be engaged by now.”

Remus traces patterns into the carpet, which Sirius bought when Remus mentioned offhandedly that he liked the leaf pattern on it. 

“Do you miss her?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I think—I felt normal while we were together. I mean, I felt like to her I was just… Harry. Like I could be myself. We had fun. She was brilliant. But after a while—”

He’s quiet. Remus doesn’t say anything.

“We wanted different things,” Harry concludes, a bit lamely. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

“Harry,” Remus says. “It wasn’t. You’re right.”

Harry looks at him, and Remus can tell he doesn’t believe it, even though he was the one to say it. It came out of his mouth like something practiced, like something someone else said and Harry has been repeating.

“So, anyway,” Harry says, and sighs heavily. He shakes his shoulders, as if trying to dispel the heavy mood. “We’re on a break. It’s not… I don’t know if it’s permanent. But it’s for now.”

He shrugs, and picks himself up off the floor.

“Tea?” he says, and heads off into the kitchen. Remus follows, with the vague feeling that they’re not quite done yet.

He’s not wrong. Harry sends the kettle to the stove with a flick of his wand. Then, he says, “She said it’d be alright if we dated other people.”

“Do you want to?” Remus says. He leans in the doorway, watching Harry pace up and down.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Maybe? I thought maybe I should so I—”

Harry visibly cringes, and rubs his eyes, dislodging his glasses.

“You what?”

“I kind of snogged Dean Thomas,” Harry says. He sounds incredibly pained by this admission.

“Oh,” Remus says, and cringes at how surprised he sounds. “Well, he’s—”

“Well, fit for sure,” Harry says. “Ginny thought it was hilarious when I told her, by the way. Which it kind of was? I was uh… really jealous of Dean, back in sixth year. Because he used to date Ginny. So yeah, funny.”

And to his credit, it does seem like the memory of Ginny laughing about him kissing Dean is lifting his spirits a little.

“Anyway, it kind of raised more questions than it answered,” he murmurs, in the end, just as the kettle starts whistling. He says, “You know, we should really get an electric kettle, like in the office.”

“We should,” Remus agrees, and moves to get sugar and milk.

They drink in virtual silence, barring the easy conversation that accompanies this kind of thing. _Pass the milk_ and _how many sugars_ and that.

At length, looking down into his mug, Harry asks, “How did you know?”

Remus doesn’t really need him to elaborate on what.

He says, “I fell in love with my best friend. They say it’s a time-honoured queer tradition.”

That makes Harry crack a smile. “Had you liked girls before?” he asks.

“Yes,” Remus says. “I still do. Sirius doesn’t.”

Harry frowns down at his tea, and wrinkled his nose. He looks, suddenly, as young as he did when he first came into Remus’s office to learn how to cast a Patronus.

“It seems too easy,” Harry says. “To just say I like both.”

It breaks Remus’s heart a little.

“Harry,” he says. He smiles, when Harry meets his eyes, still looking so young. “I think that’s the hardest part.”

Harry ducks his head again, but his shoulders loosen a little bit. They finish their tea in silence, but it’s a more comfortable kind of silence.

It’s broken by Padfoot bursting into the kitchen, tracking muddy paw prints all over the tiles.

Harry’s eyes widen comically, and dart from Padfoot panting innocently, muddy all the way up to his flank, to Remus, who instinctually stood up in seeing the desecration of the kitchen.

“Pads,” Remus says. “For _fuck’s_ sake.”

Harry starts laughing, which Remus almost think must have been the purpose of Sirius’s mischief in the first place. But he couldn’t have _known_ , surely?

Anyway, it doesn’t get him out of the metaphorical—or literal—doghouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit dear to me for two reasons:
> 
> 1) the scene of Sirius and Remus reacting to Harry's death in Deathly Hollows was one of the first things I thought of when I started thinking of a "Sirius and Remus live" fic. It's a bit emotional to see it posted so many years later!  
> 2) I may have put a bit of my own experience in Harry and Remus's talk about sexuality, and that's always a lot! It was very important to me to have them talk to each other as bi men, especially because Harry is only at the beginning of figuring himself out. 
> 
> Sidenote, it was actually super hard for me to find a reason for Harry and Ginny to break up, as someone who likes H/G, which is why it's a bit vague. If I went into too much detail I ended up talking myself into ways they could make it work!
> 
> Hope the end of the holidays and the return to regular life has been kind to you all, and thanks again for all your kind words <3


	7. Diagon Alley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning to work and regular life has already kicked my ass, hello everyone!
> 
> As always thank you for all your kind words, and I'm especially touched by the comments that said Harry and Remus's talk resonated with them. Many hearts to you all <3 <3 <3

They go to Diagon Alley for the death’s head hawkmoth three weeks into Harry’s second go with the mandrake leaf.

“Question,” Harry says, as Remus taps the correct sequence on the bricks at the Leaky Cauldron. “Why haven’t we done this yet?”

“Well,” Sirius says. “We learned from experience it's better to get the hawkmoth a little closer to the time.”

“There have been accidents,” Remus says.

“But not too close,” Sirius says. “We lost an entire moon cycle because Prongs procrastinated on getting the hawkmoth.”

“This was when they were still trying to keep it secret from me,” Remus says. He looks like he's swallowed a lemon sherbet. Remus hates lemon sherbets.

He's been looking put upon because Sirius got the kitchen muddy, which only makes him even more irresistible, in Sirius's humble opinion. Vexing Moony is as fun a pastime as pleasing Moony, as either usually ends in some permutation of Sirius getting snogged.

(A vexed Moony is a very, very different creature from a genuinely angry and hurt Remus. Sirius learned this the hard way, multiple times. A vexed Moony turns his nose up at Sirius and pouts, and rolls his eyes and still smiles at him when he gets close enough. An angry Remus will look at him with betrayal in his eyes, and bare his teeth, and make Sirius's heart drop to the bottom of his feet, like nothing will ever be right until he and Moony are right again).

Sirius walks close, leaning down to murmur very close to Remus's neck.

“It was supposed to be a surprise, Moony,” he says. His front is partially pressed to Remus's back. “We should have known there's no hiding from your sharp deduction!”

“You lot were completely obvious,” Remus says. “You were definitely up to something.” He turns to Harry, who's looking at them with fond exasperation. “Ask me sometime about how Sirius accidentally sat on our hawkmoth and ruined another moon cycle for everybody.”

“It was Peter's fault,” Sirius grumbles. Remus tenses a little against him, but for perhaps the first time, mentioning Peter doesn't completely ruin their day.

Diagon Alley is a riot of colours, and Sirius immediately feels the need to turn into a dog. It's too late, though—they're in the middle of the street and they've been seen. People elbow each other, and mostly look at Harry. No one actually approaches them, fortunately, and Sirius likes to think it has something to do with the arm he throws around Harry's shoulder, and the deranged yes-I've-been-to-Azkaban smile he directs at people that look enterprising enough to attempt contact.

“Hurry along, now,” Remus says, and Sirius knows he hasn't missed any of that. His Moony has always been especially aware of his surroundings. “ _Slugs & Jiggers_ is this way. I'm hoping Mr Slug will still have a supply.”

“Remus, you know his name is not actually Mr Slug, right?” says Harry, grinning.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” Remus says. His pinched, lemon-sour face crinkles in mischief for a moment. Sirius is entirely biased, but this is a particular favourite look, on him.

The inside of _Slugs & Jiggers_ is an assault to Sirius's sharp nose, and he once again wishes he were a dog. There are all sorts of very interesting smells here. Remus throws him a warning look, possibly remembering that one unfortunate time in August before fifth year.

In Sirius's defence, he'd heard eye of newt was an aphrodisiac, and at the time he was rather desperate for Remus's attention.

Mr Slug—whose name isn’t Mr Slug—doesn’t have death’s head hawkmoth, and Remus looks deathly disappointed for a brief moment. He turns on his best sad-librarian charm on Mr Slug, however, and manages to put down a sum towards a speedy delivery of the goods within five business days.

“It’s a very time-sensitive potion, you see,” Remus says. “Harry’s studying for his Defence qualifications, and as his former Professor, I’m of course particularly invested.”

Harry throws him a smile for good measure. Poor lad is completely hopeless at leveraging his fame to get what he wants. Sirius hopes that never changes.

The trip is a success until they run into Sirius’s cousins.

His blood runs cold for a heart-stopping moment, when he sees the pale blonde of Narcissa’s hair, perfectly coiffed, next to a tall dark-haired witch. He barely registers Narcissa’s son standing by them.

The tall woman’s profile is chillingly familiar, but when she turns around to face Sirius, her features settle into the known, comforting shape of Andromeda Tonks. Sirius’s heart slows only enough for him to realise—

“What the _hell_ is Andromeda doing, talking to Narcissa?” he yells, a little too loud.

“Sirius,” Remus says. “Sirius!”

Sirius doesn't really hear it. Suddenly it's just like their school days—Remus grabbing at his arm as he charges forward to probably ruin everything. The one dissonant note is Harry, who says his name in the exact same tone, though he doesn't make it in time to actually stop him. James would have egged him on. Harry isn't James.

Andromeda's seen him. Her eyes widen at first, and then narrow. Her shoulders slump and her mouth purses. Resignation and annoyance. Brilliant. This feels even more like their school days now—good cousin Andromeda, sighing at his antics.

He loves Andromeda better than any sister he would have had, probably. But as such it is also his job to antagonise her. Nothing ever changes.

“Oh, look what we have here,” Sirius says. “A family reunion.”

Narcissa turns around and, to her credit, shows no surprise whatsoever in seeing him. Her thin blond eyebrow raises minutely, and she somehow manages to look down her nose at him even though she's a full head shorter than him. A particular talent of hers, that.

Narcissa looks different. Sirius hadn’t seen her after the first war, but he always imagined she reappeared in society looking as beautiful and pristine as ever. Throwing dinner parties and inviting friends over for tea to discuss what a pity it was they hadn't managed to carry through the extermination of Muggles, probably.

She doesn't look pristine now. She looks old. Her hair is perfectly coiffed but brittle, her pale skin sallow. There are shadows under her eyes.

She still looks at him like he's something the cat dragged in.

Well. Sirius hasn't ever been particularly compassionate when it comes to family.

“Didn't know you deigned to talk to blood traitors, Cissy,” Sirius says. He feels Remus and Harry at his back. Remus sighs behind him, a deep, weary sound. Sirius feels very briefly sorry for him.

Harry says, “Malfoy.”

Ah, yes.

Narcissa's son stands just behind her. He's a tall, thin affair, with a weak jaw and a pointy nose. An odd looking boy, as diaphanous and worn as his mother. He looks like he doesn't sleep much.

_Welcome to the club_ , Sirius thinks.

“Potter,” Narcissa's son says. He nods at Harry. He doesn't say anything else, but his chin raises a little, the tiniest bit of defiance. He moves in closer to his mother.

“Hello, Sirius,” Andromeda says. “Here to makes things harder on me, are you?”

Sirius grins at her. “Thought you might like some back up, actually. Are the purebloods bothering you?”

“You'd like to think you're not one, Sirius, wouldn't you?” Narcissa says. Her voice is ever so slightly softer than it used to be. A little hoarse. She freezes him with a glance.

Sirius sneers at her. “If I remember correctly your lot burned us out of the family tapestries, but hey. However you want to explain it to yourself, Cissy.”

“Sirius,” Harry says. “We'd better go.”

“No,” Sirius says. “What I want to know is what is happening here.”

Andromeda and Narcissa look at each other for a brief moment.

“Go,” Andromeda says. “I'll take it from here.”

Sirius shoots her a look, which she throws right back.

“Mother,” Narcissa's son says. “Let's go.”

“Yeah," Sirius says. “Retreat. That's how your family always gets through wars unscathed, isn't it?”

Narcissa's son looks at him then. His jaw is clenched, and he looks, suddenly, even paler than before.

“Unscathed,” he says only. Like Sirius is supposed to feel bad for him.

Sirius doesn't feel bad for him.

“Goodbye, Potter,” Malfoy says, pulling his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm. Narcissa is still glaring daggers at Sirius. She doesn’t even say goodbye to Andromeda, before she and her son Disapparate.

“Do you _ever_ stop being a pain, Sirius?” Andromeda asks, as soon as the Malfoys have disappeared. “Just wondering.”

“Never,” Sirius replies. “It’s my most charming characteristic.”

“Honestly, Lupin, I don’t know how you put up with it,” Andromeda continues, as if Sirius hadn’t spoken at all. Which is dead rude, of course.

Remus doesn’t say anything, although he does stay close to Sirius’s side. Harry heaves a deep sigh beside him.

“You still haven’t explained,” Sirius says. “Why you’re suddenly chummy with Narcissa.”

“I’m not!” Andromeda shouts. Her cheeks have gone red, and she glares at Sirius. She and Narcissa have never looked much alike, not like Bellatrix and Andromeda, but suddenly it is very apparent that they are sisters. “This is so like you, Sirius, barging into situations like you know a damn thing about what’s happening! You don’t know _anything_ about my relationship with Narcissa, and yet you think you can just—”

“What _relationship_? You haven’t had a relationship since they threw you out!” Sirius shouts.

“You think I don’t know that?” Andromeda shouts right back. “You think I’ve forgotten the terrible things they did? The things they said? They did and said them to _me_ , Sirius. Not to you.”

“Not to me?” Sirius can feel his own chest heaving. “Not to _me?_ ”

“It’s not up to you whether I talk to my little sister or not,” Andromeda says. She’s breathing hard, but she’s lowered her voice. “It’s up to me.”

And with that said, she Disapparates with a crack.

There’s a moment of tense silence between the three of them. The righteous fury in his chest is still burning. He has a hard time placing it, and he knows Remus, in his infinite wisdom, could probably tell him with pinpoint accuracy, exactly why he’s acting this way. He’s rather ruthless that way, his Moony, and though he loves him, he’s not ready to be flayed open in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Merlin only knows what Harry thinks.

He doesn’t want to see disappointment or pity in their eyes, and so he doesn’t look back at them at all.

*

The forest he runs in with Moony is very different in the daylight. At night, with dog eyes, it’s a dark place, made of shifting shadows and the glaring silence of the little creatures of the night hiding from the wolf. In the morning, it is alive with sounds, and bathed in buttery light.

Harry’s steps are loud, upsetting the underbrush. He reaches out a hand to touch the mossy back of a tree. They walk in silence, and Sirius knows they’re both waiting for the moment either of them will speak of it.

When he finally looked back at Harry and Remus, yesterday, back at the cottage, they’d looked respectively morose and pensive. Remus had looked at him with a hard, blank look that Sirius knew all too well.

Remus wasn’t angry with him, exactly, but he was doing that thing where he purposefully ignored a sulk until Sirius had worked himself up to exhaustion. It was probably partly why he’d let Harry and Sirius go out to the meadow alone.

Harry has just been quiet. Sirius doesn’t know where he learned _that._

“Did you know,” Harry says, jumping over a root. “I testified at the Malfoy trial?”

Sirius had known, in a distant way. In the first days after the Battle, Harry had come back to live with them at Grimmauld Place with Ron and Hermione. Sirius had been attached to his hip for at least two weeks, until things settled down and Remus forced them apart.

“You can’t be with him at all times,” he said, holding Sirius’s face between both his hands.

Sirius hadn’t said anything for a long moment. His hands shook a lot, in those days, and his grip on sanity was tenuous at best.

“What if I look away?” he told Remus. “What happens if I look away?”

“Pads,” Remus said, like he understood. “You have to look away eventually.”

And eventually, he had. The trials had come around, and he knew Harry went to testify at more than one. Sirius himself had testified in a few, and Remus’s testimony had been key in locking up Greyback himself.

“I know,” Sirius says. “I don’t know why they only locked old Lucius up.”

Harry is quiet for a long moment. Then, he says, “I testified in favour of Draco and Narcissa.”

Sirius stops. The birds are making a racket in the trees, and Harry’s loud steps in the underbrush also stop.

“They saved my life,” Harry says. “It’s all I said, really.”

“How?” Sirius asks. The notion of it hasn’t sunk in yet. The Malfoys—cowardly, pureblood, selfish—saving Harry’s life.

“They lied,” Harry says. “Malfoy, when I was in the Manor in disguise. I knew he’d recognised me, but he lied to Bellatrix. And Mrs Malfoy in the Forbidden Forest, after he—after, he asked her to check whether I was dead. She lied to him then.”

Sirius doesn't say anything at first. He walks ahead a little, and feels Harry's steps resonate again behind him.

“I'm not telling you because I think you should change your mind, you know,” Harry says, at length. “Or to say that we should forgive them. But I think... I think we all changed during the war, and Malfoy is not the worst person I know anymore.”

Sirius huffs. “A ringing endorsement.”

Harry speeds up a little, and knocks into Sirius's shoulder. When Sirius looks over to him, and finds him grinning, a little mischievous.

“So I'm tolerating talking to Malfoy in a civil manner,” he says. “Maybe that's what Andromeda is doing too. Or maybe not. I don't know.”

And with that, he finally walks ahead, and into the meadow where Padfoot starts his midnight runs with Moony.

The meadow is empty and peaceful. It always is, even in the dark of night with the full moon shining down, and Remus's screams rising up. It's why Sirius chose it, all those months ago.

Looking at it now, he thinks maybe he should bring Moony here during the day, sometime. Let him see the dew curling around the blades of grass, and the way the sunlight cuts across the trees.

“Right,” Sirius says. “This should do. If we ward it, we can make sure no one passes through here for the next week. And voilà—dew that hasn't been touched by human feet for seven days. Let me tell you, that was a bitch to get when we did it at Hogwarts.”

“Maybe that's why people wait to be adults to do this thing,” Harry says.

“Maybe,” Sirius concedes. Then he grins back at Harry. “But when have we ever shied away from a challenge, Potter?”

*

At home, he finds Remus in their bedroom, looking out from the window.

“I think,” Remus says. “We should trim the hedge. It's starting to look a bit unkempt.”

“Oh, that's intentional,” Sirius says. “Reminds me of Harry's hair, you see.”

“Ah,” Remus says. “I do see. A rather unique artistic vision.”

“I'm rather unique.”

Sirius wraps his arms around Remus's waist, feeling him relax back into it almost immediately. It's rather a wondrous thing, always, that Remus still trusts him. That he hasn't somehow broken it after everything. Every thing that went wrong in their lives—which is almost everything in itself.

“All right, Moony,” he says, into Remus's jumper. “Tell me. What brand of foolish am I being this time?”

Remus's long, knobby fingers brush against his, which rest against his belly, having snuck underneath the jumper.

“I'm angry too, you know,” Remus says. “Just because I don't walk up to Narcissa Malfoy in the street doesn't mean—doesn't mean I'm not angry.”

“I know,” Sirius says. Remus's anger is livid, quiet, deafening.

“I think you're taking it as a personal affront because they did those things to you as well,” Remus says. “I think you think it's always been you and Andromeda and Alphard, and that Alphard is dead, and if Andromeda is talking to Narcissa then that leaves just you. I think you feel that maybe if she's forgiven her, that means that what they did to all of you is justified.”

Remus flays him open with such gentleness that bleeding comes almost as a relief.

“I think that's not true,” Remus says. “Forgiveness means that there was a hurt to forgive. I also think you don't have to forgive a bloody thing if you don't want to.”

A kiss on the bleeding wound. Remus's fingers tracing the backs of Sirius's, where they're clinging to him.

“And as for being alone,” Remus says. “As I said, I'm angry too.”

Sirius returns the kiss, dropped against the side of Remus's neck.

“You’re too good to me, Moony,” Sirius huffs.

“Well,” Remus says. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by musings on how 1) you don't owe anyone your forgiveness but 2) sometimes it's hard to let go of your family even when they've hurt you. Even when you know they're objectively awful.
> 
> On to answering some comments, thanks for reading <3


	8. Second Attempt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long! I dropped the ball a little on posting this, but things got really hectic with the beginning of the year (and yours truly may or may not have started playing Breath of the Wild, so that's taken a lot of time and brainspace!) 
> 
> To make up for it, this is a double update (and it gets spicy towards the end....)
> 
> Thanks again for all of your kind comments, I hope to get around to replying to everyone in the next few days too!

The morning of the full moon is perfectly damp, the sky grey and white like iron and milk. There is no sunrise to be seen. Ron and Hermione arrive at Beech Cottage early, and spend the day with their feet up in front of the fire, while Remus cleans listlessly around them.

“You just have to be glad I kept him from attempting to cook,” Sirius says. “He just needs something to occupy him, is all.”

“I’m not a child, Sirius,” Remus snaps, and swats him with a tea towel.

“I sure hope not,” Sirius replies, and Remus knows he’s thinking about last night. And this morning. And just two hours ago, with silencing charms on, in the laundry room.

He feels his cheeks heat, and swats Sirius again for good measure.

“You should go running tonight, anyway,” Harry says. “You’ve taken the Wolfsbane, and we’re going to be out in the moonlight no more than ten minutes.”

“The lad’s right, Remus,” Sirius says, the enabler. “It’ll be perfectly safe.”

Remus purses his lips, and sends a pile of laundry to fold with a too-vehement flick of his wand. The laundry slaps itself across a wall in its haste to comply.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“And what, you’ll just be cooped up in our room, all night long?” Sirius huffs.

“Worked perfectly fine while I was teaching at Hogwarts,” Remus says. “And for years before that.”

Sirius flinches, and Remus feels guilty. The restlessness in his bones won’t let him say anything, though. He’s about to crawl out of his skin, or perhaps scratch it off.

“I said no,” he reiterates, and the laundry follows him as he stomps up the stairs.

Later, Sirius comes find him, and blast him—he knows exactly how to butter Remus up. He wraps his arms around Remus’s waist, in the dreary light of the morning, and presses warm kisses all along Remus’s neck.

“What’s the matter, huh?” he asks. “You know it’s safe. Why are you scared?”

He remembers Harry, at thirteen, on the full moon in June. His last clear memory of Harry, that night, is his face dawning in horror and fear.

“I don’t want him to see me like that,” he says. “Not… not again.”

Sirius hums against his neck.

“All right,” he says. “Well, feel free to tell me to bugger off Moony, but… I think that’s exactly why you should.”

Remus frowns, and pulls away so he can turn look at Sirius. And frown at him directly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sirius says. “What, do you think that after all this, Harry won’t ask to come with us on a full moon? When he can transform?”

That makes a certain amount of sense. Remus is even more put upon to realise this.

“He’ll be able to transform then,” Remus says. “That’s completely different.”

“It isn’t, so much,” Sirius says. There’s challenge and mischief in his eyes. Remus can see the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Come now, Moony. Are you scared?”

“That doesn’t work on me, you know,” Remus says, with a certain amount of irritation. “I’m not James. And I _am_ scared.”

The smile at the corner of Sirius’s mouth softens.

“Nothing bad will happen, Remus,” Sirius says. “And Harry won’t think of you any differently.”

Remus sighs, his shoulders moving with it, and brings a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He’s already tired, and the moon hasn’t even risen yet.

“They need to be prepared to Apparate out at the first sign of danger,” Remus says. He’s conceding, and Sirius’s smile widens to a full grin. “ _And_ I’ll transform somewhere far from where Harry’s starting the potion. I don’t want to ruin the process, in case anything goes wrong.”

Sirius wraps his arms around him again, and lets out a loud whoop, which Remus is sure the kids downstairs can hear. He returns the embrace, his arms around Sirius’s shoulders, and Sirius’s nose in his neck again.

“You’ll see, Moony,” Sirius says. “Everything will be alright.”

And dear Merlin, Remus almost believes him. Sirius has always been able to make him believe the impossible, anyway.

*

The night is quiet and tense around Moony, the forest hushed, all creatures hiding.

They know the wolf is here.

Moony’s paws make no sound in the underbrush, and even though his thoughts are his own, there’s something within him that relishes the thought of being the most dangerous thing in the forest.

The problem has always been that, anyway—the wolf that is him has always been the most dangerous thing in the forest, in his life.

But he’s in control of the night, and in control of himself. The only sound, beside him, is Padfoot carelessly trudging through the underbrush. He’s panting loudly and wagging his tail, and running circles around Moony, even as they make their way towards their meadow.

Moony growls at him, and Padfoot crouches down, playful, daring him.

Moony indulges him for a moment, leaping at him and putting him on his back. Padfoot wiggles under him, and snaps with his jaws, play-biting at Moony’s throat. Moony evades him, and growls again, Padfoot’s bites turning into grooming. He twists underneath Moony, until he’s on his front again, and lets Moony rest his head against his back.

The moon is high in the sky. They must go.

He can smell Harry long before they get to the meadow. So can Padfoot—his ears perk up, and he stands straighter. His whole body seems to be straining towards the boy.

It’s odd—to perceive Harry in this form. The smell of him is sharper, more distinct. Familiar. Pack, in the same way Padfoot is pack.

He has no illusions that he would think the same thing, were it not for the Wolfsbane. Harry smells human—the wolf, were Remus not in control, would see him as nothing but prey.

But the wolf is not in control.

Harry is standing at the edge of their meadow, and Hermione is undoing the wards he and Sirius placed there a week ago. Moony can feel the magic drop to nothing, and it makes his heckles rise.

He watches from the opposite side of the meadow as Harry walks in, carrying a clear glass vial. The moon is almost exactly above them, shining white and round. It reflects into Harry’s glasses, and coats him in silver.

“Here goes nothing,” Harry murmurs, under his breath, too low for Ron and Hermione to hear from the edge of the woods. Moony can hear. Padfoot’s ears twitch, and brush against the fur of Moony’s neck. He’s practically vibrating with the need to run towards Harry, but he crouches down at Moony’s feet again, and Moony rests his chin on his back.

Harry takes the mandrake leaf out of his mouth, and places it into the vial. Then, the chrysalis of death’s head hawkmoth, which had been wrapped and in his pocket. Finally, the dew, which has not been touched by sunlight or human feet, and which shimmers under the moonlight as it lands on the vial.

Harry stoppers the vial. All the breath rushes out of him at once.

“Fuck,” he says, somewhat breaking the tension of the moment. “It’s done.”

Ron lets out a whoop from the other side of the clearing, and Hermione laughs. Harry smiles, still looking down at the vial of potion, his hair in his eyes.

Padfoot barks joyously at him, and for the first time, Harry looks up and straight at them.

His eyes widen. Moony knows what he must look like—a big grey wolf, almost as tall as a horse. The last time Harry saw him, he’d been trying to rip him to shreds.

Harry doesn’t move, and holds Moony’s gaze. His breath has frozen in his lungs, shoulders still. He’s still bathed in silver.

“Harry?” Hermione calls from the other side. She can’t see them, Moony and Padfoot. Harry lets out the breath he’d been holding, his shoulders relaxing the longer he looks at them.

Finally, he smiles. A small, relieved thing.

“I’m ready,” he says, pitching his voice to carry across to Ron and Hermione. Lower, to Moony and Padfoot, he says, “See you in the morning.”

The three of them disappear with a loud crack. Moony allows himself to think about the upcoming moons, and imagine a third shadow with them once again.

*

Molly Weasley’s head is bobbing in their fireplace, and Remus’s knees are protesting from all the kneeling. He doesn’t voice this, because Sirius is sitting beside him, and he would _definitely_ make a long-suffering comment about the state of their sex life.

“I just don’t understand, Remus,” Molly says. “He’s had his eighteenth with us, and you remember how well that went, it’s really no trouble for us to host again! We’d love to have you, you know.”

“No, I know that, Molly,” Remus says. Sirius is positively vibrating with annoyance beside him. “It’s just that we didn’t have a place, last year, and now that we have one there’s simply no need.”

“This is his home, Molly,” Sirius says, finally. Remus is marginally grateful that he doesn’t sound _more_ spiteful. “We want him to have a birthday at _home_ for heaven’s sake.”

He doesn’t need to say that they’re not sure Harry’s ever had a birthday at _home_. Not a home that wanted him, anyhow. Molly had always been exceptionally warm and welcoming, and the Weasleys had become a second family for Harry but it wasn’t… it wasn’t the same, not in Sirius’s mind.

“He’s always going to be Ron’s mate, there,” he told Remus, just last night. “And what if his break up with Ginny hadn’t been _amicable,_ what then? The fact is, if they had to choose, they’d choose their own kid.”

“That’s not fair, Sirius,” Remus said. “They’re not like that.”

“I know they’re not,” Sirius said. “But you see what I’m saying? Harry’s ours.”

And the thing is, even though Sirius is louder about this, and perhaps less tactful, Remus does understand. When he’d first seen Harry, sitting across from him on the Hogwarts Express, the pain he’d felt had only been partially the distant memory of James.

It had been the loss of his friend, but it had also been the loss of his role in Harry’s life. He’d missed him growing up. He was supposed to be there, seeing him grow up.

_Harry’s ours._ Isn’t Sirius right?

“Besides,” Remus says, to Molly’s head in their fireplace. “We wanted to invite some of our new friends, from the village.”

“Oh!” Molly exclaims. “From the village? So they’re—”

“Muggles, yes,” Remus says. He throws a look sideways to Sirius, who is looking at him with that wide-eyed, slightly deranged look he gets whenever Remus does something clever. “We’ve been preparing the house for it, so it’d be much safer to have it here. No risk of revealing ourselves. That is—if everyone makes sure to be on their best behaviour.”

“Oh, but of course!” Molly says. One of her hands comes into view, pressing against her cheek. “Arthur is going to be ecstatic, he is. I suppose it does make the most amount of sense. Oh, but you have to let me know what to bring. You’re going to need help with the food.”

“I—” Sirius starts.

“That would be lovely, Molly, thank you,” Remus says. “You and Sirius should talk about the menu. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help.”

“Well, alright,” Molly says. “I better go now, though. Sirius, I’ll owl you!”

She vanishes from the fireplace, and suddenly Remus finds himself toppling backwards into the carpet. Sirius is above him, smiling that deranged smile at him.

“Moony!” he says, a little breathy. “You’re an evil genius.”

Remus snorts, though he has a hard time keeping it up when Sirius ducks to kiss his mouth, briefly, moving along across his cheek to his neck.

“I’m not a genius,” Remus says. His voice has gone a little hoarse with the feeling of Sirius’s teeth at his neck. “Just because I— _ah_ —can think sensibly for five minutes.”

“I love it when you’re sensible,” Sirius says. His tongue is hot against Remus’s skin, and his hands have found their way to Remus’s thighs. “I love it when you’re _insensible_.”

Remus frowns. “That makes no sense.”

Sirius pulls back, smiling down at him. The firelight shines in his eyes and for a moment Remus forgets that he’s completely ridiculous.

“It means that I love you,” Sirius says, cheeky.

“Oh,” Remus replies. Well, now _he_ is the one who feels ridiculous. Still rendered speechless by Sirius sweet-talking him, like he’s sixteen again.

And Remus has never really felt young, not even when he _was_ young.

“Oh,” Sirius says, and smiles, all teeth.

“Well,” Remus replies, though Sirius’s hands have taken to wondering again. “I didn’t know I had to do so little.”

“I’m afraid it really doesn’t take much,” Sirius confirms.

Remus is sure he had something witty to say to that, but Sirius silences him with a kiss. It’s languid, Sirius drawing him into slow, dry kisses first. He sucks at Remus’s top lip, bottom lip, he hovers just above him and makes him reach up to chase. And Remus does chase him, and gets a hand in his hair when he gets impatient.

That’s when he feels Sirius smile into the kiss, and then coax Remus’s mouth open.

It’s all heading in a very interesting direction—Sirius’s hands sliding up his thighs, his tongue in Remus’s mouth—when Remus hears a very distinct, “Oh, _shit._ ”

He tears himself from Sirius’s mouth and turns to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the doorway.

He claps a hand on his mouth, as if to hide the evidence. Incidentally, Hermione’s hands are also both pressed against her mouth, while Ron’s eyes are wide and a little horrified.

“Oh, shit,” Remus echoes.

“Hey, kids,” Sirius says. He has not budged an inch, and his erection is still conspicuously pressed against Remus.

Remus wants to die.

“Uh, hey guys,” Harry says. “We’re just gonna, uh—we’ll give you a minute.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Remus says. His hand has migrated to his eyes. He doesn’t want to see this. His head thuds back against the carpet, and he feels a quick huff of breath—Sirius—against his chin.

“We’re _so sorry,_ Professor—”

“Let’s _go_.”

“If you laugh,” Remus says, once the kids’ footsteps have moved towards the kitchen. “I’m leaving you.”

Sirius’s belly, still very up close and personal, is quivering against Remus’s in a tell-tale way. Sirius may not be laughing out loud, but he’s laughing _inside._ Remus has to ponder whether to carry out his threat.

“I would never laugh at you, Moony,” Sirius says.

“Laughing at the kids being scarred for life also counts.”

“They’re all legal adults and know the facts of life, Remus. They’re out there having sexuality crises and all.”

Remus lets himself be pulled up, and pointedly avoids implying Sirius may have a point in any way.


	9. Nineteen

"Okay, Nan," Stacey says, as she drives them up to Beech Cottage. "Try not to freak out too much about actually seeing the house."

"I've been inside, you know, Stacey," Mrs Clements says.

"You complained for two days that you hadn't had a chance to see the bathrooms, or the sitting room, or the back garden."

"I did not complain," Mrs Clements points out. She hadn't. It was a just a real shame, when Sirius had talked about his plans for a vegetable garden.

Beech Cottage is still lovely from the outside, of course. It is also much more lively than Mrs Clements has ever seen it. Why, when the Parkers lived there, Gladys rarely entertained, and never such large numbers.

Mrs Clements can see people come and go in front of the kitchen window, and she can hear laughter and music from the driveway.

"Be cool, Nan," Stacey says.

"I am cool," Mrs Clements protests.

A red-haired woman opens the door. She has a round, kind face, and a few streaks of grey in her hair. Her eyes are small, and blue, and lively, and she smiles at Mrs Clements and Stacey. Mrs Clements isn't sure why this woman is answering the door.

"Oh, hello," the woman says. "You must be Remus and Sirius's guests from the village. I don't believe we've met, I'm Molly Weasley. Do come in."

Mrs Clements and Stacey are ushered inside by a warm Mrs Weasley. Mrs Clements can't help but be endeared when Mrs Weasley compliments her coat.

"I've never seen one like this. It's very becoming," Mrs Weasley says.

Mrs Clements can almost hear Mrs Singh's voice in her ear. _It's like the woman's never seen a coat. What's that about?_

"Constance!" Sirius's voice comes booming down the hallway. He appears in the door to the sitting room, where it's clear most of the guests are gathered. "So happy you could make it. You've met Molly, then. I expect you two will be best friends by the end of today."

The living room is warm and cozy, with dark red armchairs and, oddly, a crackling fireplace.

"It's July," Stacey whispers to her. “August, tomorrow.”

"I don't feel too warm," Mrs Clements says. "Do you?"

There are no less than seven red-haired men in the room. That is without mentioning the red-haired children, and the lovely red-haired young woman Mrs Weasley introduces as her daughter, Ginny. This is followed by Mrs Weasley introducing four out of her six sons—her second, Charlie, is somewhere in Romania, and her youngest, Ron, is outside in the garden with Harry—and her grandchildren—one from her eldest, Bill, and two from her middle sons, Percy and Fred. She introduces Bill’s wife, Fleur, who is beautiful enough Mrs Clements can’t quite look at her directly, and her other daughters-in-law, Angelina and Audrey.

Then there’s a young black woman wearing a nice argyle jumper that Mrs Weasley introduces as Hermione Granger, a peculiar pale girl by the name of Luna Lovegood, and a third young woman with bright purple hair who begs to be called Tonks before Mrs Weasley can even introduce her. The Singhs are also around, thank the heavens, and Sara Singh is having an apparently lively discussion with Luna Lovegood about, of all things, platypi. The Robertses must be somewhere in the garden, as Mrs Clements can spot Billy Roberts playing with Bill and Fleur’s young, strawberry-blonde child.

“I’m quite sure,” Stacey says. “The house isn’t big enough for all of these people.”

Mrs Clements wouldn’t have guessed it either, but the sitting room seems to be more than spacious enough to hold everyone comfortably, and the long table of refreshments up against the far wall. Plus, there are a certain number of red-headed men out in the garden.

Mrs Clements, finally, blessedly, finds Remus Lupin by the fire, intent on putting it out.

“Just showing Arthur the fireplace," Remus says. "They don't have one like this at their house and uh—he wanted to see Sirius's additions.”

“Of course,” Mrs Clements says, like this makes perfect sense. “Mr Weasley seems very... keen.”

She was introduced to Arthur Weasley earlier, though he'd barely been able to tear himself from a conversation with Mr Singh, over by the buffet table. Mr Singh works in real estate, so Mrs Clements is still trying to puzzle out why they were talking about lightbulbs, of all things.

“The Weasleys have been very good to us, and to Harry," Remus says. "Their son, Ron, is Harry's best mate—since school, you know. Molly has been a huge help for us, especially while Harry was still living with his aunt.”

"Oh," Mrs Clements says. "He didn’t live with you?"

She doesn’t know why she had assumed so—perhaps the easy way the three of them interact, the way she’d come to see Harry as an integral part of the Beech Cottage household. But of course, even with Harry’s parents being gone, it did not mean he had no other relatives.

“It's complicated,” Remus says. “Harry lived with his family on his Mum’s side, until he was fifteen. It wasn’t—it was hard for Sirius to get custody. And besides, Harry’s been of age for a while now, so things are easier.”

He says no more on the subject, and thirty minutes in, Mrs Clements is sure that she’s been introduced to no blood relatives of Harry’s.

She does finally get to say hello to Harry, and wish him a happy birthday. He looks bright and happy, a smile showing a dimple in one of his cheeks, and his hair quite as unruly as always.

“Thank you so much, Mrs Clements,” he says. “I’m so glad you could come.”

He’s swept away soon enough by one of Mrs Weasley’s red-haired boys—Ron, probably—and the girl Hermione, who has a book out and keeps waving excitedly at them with it. She inadvertently hits both of them with it at least once.

She may not have met Harry’s blood relatives, but it’s also clear that Harry’s family is all present.

“Constance!” Sirius says, finally emerging again from the kitchen. He bears a tray of Yorkshire pudding, still steaming. “I’ve been neglecting you!”

“It’s quite alright, Sirius,” Mrs Clements says. “Mr Singh was just explaining to me and Mr Weasley how a television works.”

“Quite astounding how one can operate it every day and not know how it works!” Mr Weasley says, in that odd, awed tone.

“Ah, yes,” Sirius says, looking suddenly vaguely uncomfortable. “You know what, Constance? Let me put these puddings down and I’ll be right with you. I need updates on the Butterfield business.”

The Butterfield business is, of course, the scandalous affair Cynthia Butterfield is having with the gardener. It’s the usual fare, really, but Sirius always seems to find these stories fascinating.

He’s true to his words, and comes back to hear all about Cynthia and this man, and then graciously gives her a tour of the renovations, and the garden.

“It’s lovely, Sirius,” she says, patting his hand. “Much more handsome than when Gladys lived here.”

“Wouldn’t want to be second to _Gladys_ ,” Sirius replies, and steers her towards upstairs to continue the tour. The stairs are a sight in themselves, lined with pictures.

“That’s James, you see,” Sirius points at a picture halfway up the staircase.

It shows four people: two young men no older than sixteen—a boy who looks remarkably like Harry, and a younger Sirius. Sirius at sixteen was just as handsome, in a gentler sort of way. In the picture, his cheeks are fuller, and there are no shadows under his eyes. His hair is long, dark, and glossy, and he smiles broadly, the other boy’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. Behind them, a man and a woman in their early forties, perhaps, the father as tall and skinny as both James and Harry, with a full black beard and shining brown eyes. The woman beside him is short, and has Harry’s smile and glasses.

“That’s the summer I went to live with them, you see, after my parents disowned me,” Sirius says. “James was like a brother to me.”

The first part he says cheerily—being disowned hardly seems to bother him. On James’s name, however, he falters. Mrs Clements has been holding to Sirius’s arm the entire time, during this tour, and feels him stiffen a little under her hands. She doesn’t ask what happened to James. She doesn’t need to.

“And over there,” Sirius continues. “Is James and Lily’s wedding. You can see, I’m right there by James, I was best man. Quite dashing if I do say so myself—the years haven’t been kind, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense. You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Bless you, Constance, really. Look at Remus, trying to squirrel out of the frame.”

And indeed—there’s Remus, barely making it into the frame beside Sirius. He looks at Sirius with that fond, half-irritated look she’s come to recognise, like Sirius hung the stars and it’s a great inconvenience for everyone. Odd, she could have sworn he hadn’t been there a moment before.

“And there—baby Harry with his godfather. Look at those cheeks.”

Baby Harry is a heart-warming sight, all round brown cheeks and big green eyes. Sirius is grinning like a lunatic, and holding Harry up by his armpits.

“Like in the Lion King,” she chuckles.

Sirius gives her a puzzled look. “Well. We didn’t know he would be one, then.”

“What?” Mrs Clements says.

Sirius frowns, still puzzled. “What?”

Finally at the top of the stairs, Sirius proceeds to show her the rest of the house. There’s a study, containing a rather charming library—“Remus can waste away entire days in here, I swear”—a guest room, and Harry’s bedroom.

“And of course the bathroom, and our bedroom that way.”

A harmless remark, but accompanied by a grin and a wink that makes Mrs Clements flush.

“Oh,” she says, and swats his arm. “You’re a wicked young man.”

“Remus always says so,” Sirius agrees.

*

As the sun sets, Harry finds Sirius in the garden, just at the edge of their property. He takes a deep breath as he’s done at sunrise and sunset for the past three days.

Sirius doesn’t need to say the incantation with him, and indeed he doesn’t lift his wand against his chest like Harry does. But he says he likes to say the words anyhow.

“Like old times,” Sirius says. ~~~~

The sun is already fading behind the trees. Harry presses the tip of his wand against his chest, and he and Sirius murmur the charm together.

Soft into the twilight, “ _Amato Animo Animato Animagus.”_

*

The evening finds Remus in the study and library, curled up in his favourite armchair by the window. Sirius does always say he gets lost in here, spends too much time scribbling at his desk or reading by the window (he fully intends to move the armchair by the fire, come winter).

Remus says it’s his own fault—Sirius made this room. He’d kept it secret for days, until he was done with it, and presented it to Remus like a present.

Remus had been hard pressed not to make a fool of himself right then. That, or press Sirius directly against the mahogany desk in the middle of the room.

The light has almost died outside, and Remus is trying not to think about the absolute mess in the sitting room and kitchen. A problem for tomorrow.

It was a good day. He closes his eyes and holds in his mind the image of Harry’s face lit up by a veritable army of candles, surrounded by people who love him.

It makes him want to scream, in an odd way, like wanting to claw at everything he has because he can’t believe it won’t be taken away. He doesn’t have the best track record of keeping hold of the things that make him happy.

The stairs creak with Sirius and Harry’s steps. They’re talking in hushed voices, and Remus can’t tell what they’re saying. He hears Sirius chuckle at something Harry said. The distinctive squeak of Harry’s door. Sirius had promised to get rid of that, but the house is already starting to become stubborn. Besides, Remus is starting to become fond of the squeak—it means, in an abstract way, that Harry is home.

Sirius appears in the door, Remus can tell by the pattern of his steps, and where they stop, and Sirius’s scent reaching him.

He opens his eyes. Sees Sirius there.

Perhaps he’s been uncharitable with himself. If he hasn’t been able to hold onto the things he loves, they have also—often, not always—come back to him.

Sirius is leaning against the doorframe, that languid, careless pose from their school days. Like he just _happens_ to always arrange himself in the most attractive way possible.

Or maybe Remus is biased. He doesn’t think he is. Sirius has always been stupidly handsome.

“Hi,” Remus says.

Sirius’s grin, which had been only a possibility before, widens on his face. Sharp.

“Moony,” he says. “Been waiting for someone?”

Remus makes an inquisitive, confused hum.

“Not particularly.”

“Really?” Sirius says, and straightens from the doorway, coming towards him. “I struggle to believe it. Look at you lying there all… seductive, like.”

Remus looks down at himself. His jumper is wrinkled and he’s slouching a little in his armchair. Not what he would consider particularly sexy, personally, but Sirius has always been odd.

And anyway, Remus knows how to play him.

“Oh, this?” he says. He makes sure to look up at Sirius through his lashes, and he knowingly parts his legs a little farther, perching his chin on his hand. “I don’t know _what_ you mean.”

He’s rewarded—Sirius inhales sharply, and his grin falters. Remus is abruptly reminded of the other day, when they were interrupted. It seems there hasn’t been a proper moment to pick up where they left off. Too many busy days, and bad nights.

Sirius’s breath is very carefully slow, which only serves to make Remus feel hot all over. He bites his lip, and is treated to Sirius’s eyes widening.

His jaw sets stubbornly. It’s a sign Remus knows.

He doesn’t even flinch when Sirius plucks the book he was reading from his hands, and pops it on the other armchair. He just looks up at Sirius with his chin still in his hand. Sirius’s pupils are blown, hungry, and his dark hair is falling in his eyes. Sirius draws his wand from his pocket, and shuts the door with a flick, following it with a silencing charm.

The moment stretches, and the sight alone—Sirius above him like that—is almost enough to drive him crazy.

He expects Sirius to straddle him, but Sirius, as always, surprises him. He goes to his knees instead, right between Remus’s legs, making him catch his breath.

The smile is back, and up to no good. Sirius is close now, kneeling and sliding his hands up Remus’s thighs, pressing up against his chest.

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Moony,” Sirius says, a breath away from Remus’s lips. “Don’t you?”

“Oh,” Remus says, his own hands having found their way to Sirius’s shoulders. He misses ‘prim’ by a mile, and lands on ‘breathless’.

Undaunted, Remus says, “Do shut up.”

He takes care of that himself, of course. Sirius was never good at following directions.

Sirius laughs against his mouth, and deepens the kiss. This time, his tongue is in Remus’s mouth almost immediately, and he yanks Remus closer by his thighs, until they’re pressed together hip to heart.

Remus slides further down the armchair, which is liable to give him a crick in his neck. Not that he’s going to do anything about it but huff a moan into Sirius’s mouth and pull him closer. Sirius’s nails are digging into his hips, and dragging inwards along the top of his thigh.

“Oh,” Remus says, Sirius’s hand pressing insistently against his hardening cock.

“Oh,” Sirius repeats, sharp teeth on Remus’s jaw.

“Handjobs in the library?” Remus says, breathless and laughing. “Feels like being at Hogwarts all over again.”

Sirius detaches himself from where he’s plastered against Remus’s chest and wipes sweaty hair from his forehead.

“You _never_ let me give you handjobs in the library back at Hogwarts!” he protests, too loudly, and Remus instinctively starts to shush him, before he remembers the silencing charm and laughs instead.

“You’re a callous, callous man, Remus Lupin,” Sirius says. “ _Depriving_ me of the joy of desecrating the Hogwarts library and then _laughing_ about it.”

“But I let you desecrate _my_ library,” Remus points out. Sirius’s eyes gleam, as if the mere suggestion of the words is making him randy again. Which it probably is. Sirius’s spirit is always very willing, even though his body takes longer to catch up these days.

“You’re right,” Sirius says. “But as you’ve incurred a debt… I think you better pay up, Moony.”

And with that, he yanks Remus off the armchair and onto the floor, and proceeds to make good on it.

“You’re not very gentle, you know,” Remus complains, now spread out on the carpet with Sirius above him. One of his ankles hooks around Sirius’s leg and pulls him closer.

Sirius is intent on waging battle against the buttons of Remus’s shirt, and only looks up at him coyly. “Tell me you don’t like that, Moony.”

Remus bites his tongue, watching Sirius’s nimble fingers on the buttons. “I didn’t say I _didn’t_.”

Sirius hums, hands slipping into Remus’s shirt, tracing his ribs gently. His mouth is hot on Remus’s neck again, tracing a path up to the soft spot behind his ear. Biting down and making Remus break out in shivers.

Remus’s own hands feel a little clumsy, plucking at Sirius shirt. Sirius fortunately takes the hint, and soon he’s bare and thin and solid under Remus’s fingers.

He’s growing hard against Remus’s hip, too, and it hasn’t gotten any less thrilling, somehow. He still remembers that vivid first time—not the first time they made love, but the first time he felt Sirius grow hard against him. Shut behind the curtains of Sirius’s bed and trying to be quiet. Sirius heavy on top of him, just like this, and panting into his neck.

And Remus had thought it must be all a dream. Sirius Black, hard for him.

“It’s not a dream,” he finds himself muttering, as Sirius fumbles with his flies. Sirius’s palm fitting against his cock, easy with the experience of years.

Sirius doesn’t ask what Remus is on about, only pulls himself away from Remus’s neck and looks down at him, pupils blown and dark and pulling Remus in. Crooked, smug smile on his red mouth.

“All right, Moonshine?” he asks, and Remus’s clumsy, knobby fingers brush back his hair from his forehead. Sirius follows them, and bites into the base of his thumb, presses a wet kiss into his palm.

“All right, Pads,” Remus says, returning the smile.

Sirius kisses him, mouth open and hungry, and his hand has made its way into Remus’s underwear and wraps warm around his cock. He swallows up every one of Remus’s breathless sounds.

“I used to think about this,” Sirius says, his clever fingers working Remus like he likes, long slow pulls and the heel of his palm coming to glance over the wet head. “You’d be in the library, studying, all focused and kissable—do you know how hard it was not to touch you? I used to think maybe, if I pulled you into the stacks—if I could just kiss you, if you’d let me—I used to think of the sounds you’d make.”

Remus makes a sound. Low in his throat and pleading.

“Yeah, like that,” Sirius says, and kisses him again. Warm against his mouth, he says, “I’d get my hand around your cock, just like this, and I’d have to kiss you quiet. But God, I’d want to hear you. Let me hear you.”

Remus sorely hopes his spell still holds because he’s not shy about granting Sirius’s request at all. He can’t keep quiet, can’t hold back crying out Sirius’s name when he comes.

And Sirius is so damn smug about it too—smiling sharp down at him and kissing him again, all heat and laughter, biting into Remus’s lip and groaning, his hand still in Remus’s pants, carrying him through the aftershocks.

Remus gasps through it, chest heaving, and he lets his head fall back against the carpet. He closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them again he can see Sirius’s self-satisfied grin, brighter than the sunset outside.

“Pleased with yourself, then?” Remus says.

Sirius barks a laugh and pulls his hand out of Remus’s pants. Remus grabs his wrist before he can do something preposterous like wipe the come off on the carpet. 

Sirius kisses him. This time, it’s gentle and sweet enough to make Remus’s old, tired heart beat like it, too, was once young.

“Marvellous as always, Moony,” Sirius says. “I could make you do that all day.”

Remus snorts against his mouth, because the only other options are crying, or taking Sirius up on it. And neither of them has the stamina for that these days.

Sirius, however, is still pointedly hard in his trousers, and Remus only takes the time to spell his hand clean before he releases him and sneaks his own hand into Sirius’s trousers.

“What about this?” he says, when Sirius gasps against his mouth. “How’s this?”

“Brilliant,” Sirius breathes. He bites down on his lip, eyes shut, hips thrusting against Remus’s hand. “You’re so good to me.”

Remus hums in assent. He knows Sirius too, knows to alternate speed, to go slow and then fast, until he’s hovering on the edge of orgasm, and then slow down again. Maddening. It’s maddening to watch Sirius go mad with it, moans hitching in his throat and hands tight on Remus’s hips, in Remus’s hair.

“Please, Moony,” he says, when Remus doesn’t give him what he wants. Giving him exactly what he wants. “Please.”

“I have you,” Remus says, as he always says. “I have you, darling.”

Sirius buries his face, his moans in Remus’s neck, at the end, breath warm and damp by Remus’s collarbone. He slumps there for a long moment, and then hums a long, satisfied sound.

“We should do this all the time,” he says.

Remus snorts, and repeats the spell on his own hand. Once clean, he traces aimless patterns on Sirius back.

“We’d never get anything done,” he whispers.

“I’d get _you_ done,” Sirius says, nonsensically. “Which is plenty.”

Remus laughs, a little strained under Sirius’s weight. He says, “You’re crushing me.”

“Am not,” Sirius replies, and nuzzles right into Remus’s ear, wuffling like Padfoot. It makes Remus squirm and swat at his backside. “I’m a delight.”

“Oh, shut it,” Remus says, but he resigns himself to staying right where he is, under Sirius’s warm weight.

It’s not a bad way to go, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say... that's perhaps my favourite sex scene in this fic. Hope you liked it, and I'll try not to let quite so much time lapse before the next update.
> 
> I may not have mentioned before, but please feel free to come say hello on [tumblr](seagreeneyes.tumblr.com), though be forewarned I'm on a MDZS/The Untamed lockdown.


	10. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, risen from the dead again! Hope all of you have a pleasant Valentine's Day tomorrow, whether you're doing anything special or not. Personally I have a date with my bed, a cupcake from Lola's, and _P.S. I Still Love You_ on Netflix.
> 
> Thanks again for all your kind words and kudoses <3

Mrs Singh is at the till selling Edwin Pierce and his little girl bus passes, when a tall, beautiful woman enters the shop.

Mrs Clements is pretending not to be reading a tabloid in the corner, and almost misses it. Stacey, stocking up the fridge, pops her bubblegum in astonishment.

All is silent for a moment.

The woman has thick, dark hair twisted in an elegant updo, and she’s wearing a pretty purple sundress. Her nose is a little large, aristocratic, her eyes deep black and long-lashed.

“Good morning,” the woman says evenly. “I hope it’s no bother, but I need directions.”

Stacey and Mr Pierce are still looking over in dumbstruck astonishment, and Mr Pierce’s little girl takes advantage of his momentary distraction to reach out and nick a Creme egg.

“Good morning!” Mrs Clements says, shaking herself and putting down her tabloid. “How can we help you, love?”

The woman smiles at Mrs Clements. It’s quite devastating.

“I’m looking for the owners of the bookstore across?” she says.

Mrs Singh is throwing Mrs Clements a speaking look from across the till, but Mrs Clements doesn’t acknowledge it just yet.

“Of course,” Mrs Clements says. “Remus closes early on Fridays. I’m afraid you just missed him.”

“How annoying,” the beautiful woman says. “I was hoping to speak to Sirius. Could you direct me to their house, perhaps?”

“How do you know the boys?” Mrs Singh asks, with calculated prejudice.

The beautiful woman smiles again, a trace of humour in her full mouth.

“Oh, I’m Sirius’s cousin,” she says. She extends an elegant hand towards Mrs Singh. “Andromeda Tonks.”

This sounds familiar. It only takes Mrs Clements a moment to remember the girl with the bright hair, who had insisted on being called Tonks. A daughter?

Mrs Singh shakes her hand and her forehead clears. “Parminder Singh,” she says. “You do look quite like him, after all.”

Now that Mrs Clements is looking for it, the resemblance is evident. Mrs Tonks has the same dramatic good looks, the same lustrous black hair, the same easy, elegant manner. But her cheeks are rosy and healthy, she’s rather more full-figured than Sirius, and she lacks some of his swagger—just as he lacks some of her poise.

“Oh, I do see it now!” Mrs Clements says. “Quite. Well. I’m Constance Clements, very pleased to meet you. For Beech Cottage you’ll want to head out of town. You can buy a bus pass here if you’d like.”

Mrs Tonks declines a bus pass, though she does ask for a map where Mrs Clements helpfully traces the path to Beech Cottage. Mrs Tonks listens to the directions, buys the map, and is out the door quickly and gracefully.

“Wow,” Mr Pierce says.

Mrs Clements, who had forgotten all about his presence, says, “Are you going to pay for your pass, Edwin?”

“ _And_ the Creme egg Charlotte ate,” Mrs Singh says, ringing him up.

When the Pierces have also left—Edwin in a daze, Charlotte looking like the cat who got the Creme—Mrs Singh returns her speaking look to Mrs Clements.

“I should have known the bookshop boys would be involved,” she says.

“Oh, how so?” Mrs Clements says, patting her own flushed cheek.

“Whenever handsome strangers come to town,” Mrs Singh says. “It’s always the bookshop boys.”

“Stacey, are you quite all right?” Mrs Clements says, not dignifying that with a response.

“Oh,” Stacey says. She’s holding a bottle of cold milk to her cheek. “I’m fine. Just. Reconsidering a few things.”

Mrs Singh may not be completely off the mark, there.

*

The most startling part of Andromeda appearing on his doorstep is that she comes up the driveway on foot and knocks on the door.

Sirius had been expecting her. Nymphadora brought her parents’ apologies for not making Harry’s birthday. Andromeda and Ted’s trip had been booked for months, of course, and Sirius hadn’t had anything planned back then.

Sirius tries to be charitable, very briefly, and fails.

“It’s not like Harry knows her very well,” Remus said just yesterday, endlessly reasonable. “Really, Sirius, it probably has nothing to do with you.”

“How dare you suggest the world doesn’t revolve around me, Moony,” Sirius had said.

Harry snickered into his weather forecast. Ron and Hermione were clustered around the kitchen table along with him, before a spread of Transfiguration books, papers on weather-predicting charms, and plain old Muggle forecasts.

“Are these thing ever even accurate, Hermione?” Ron asked.

“Well,” Hermione said. “It’s not an exact science, but it’s usually fairly reliable.”

“But how do they _know_?”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione said. “I don’t know _everything._ ”

“Shock horror,” Harry said, and Hermione elbowed him in the side.

“Oi,” Ron said, good-naturedly. “Watch your mouth.”

At length, Harry said, “I’m not heartbroken she didn’t come, you know?”

“That’s _not_ the point,” Sirius replied. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

He and Andromeda had been raised on a very strict code of conduct, especially when it came to paying and returning visits. There was a whole protocol, and so Sirius has been expecting her to come calling, to make up for the perceived slight of missing Sirius’s kid’s birthday.

There is the distant, shrill voice of his mother in his ear, telling him how disgraceful it all is. That the perceived slight, intended or not, is a mark on the family honour that must be rectified.

He dislikes having his mother’s voice in his ear in the best of days, and it hasn’t been a particularly good one today.

So he expects Andromeda to come, but he doesn’t expect her to knock on his door.

When he opens, she’s standing there in a pretty Muggle get-up, a floral purple dress and strappy sandals. Sirius’s mother would have had a conniption, and Sirius can’t help but respect Andromeda for that. Even though he’s still cross with her.

“You didn’t give me your Floo address, you know?” Andromeda says, preventing his question.

“Oh?” Sirius says. “Tea?”

They make their way through the kitchen in silence and go through the motions of making tea, Andromeda slotting into his routine almost seamlessly, like she already knows exactly where everything is.

“Oh.” Remus’s voice comes from the doorway, just as the kettle starts whistling. He’s in his pyjama bottoms and a holey sweater, holding an empty mug 

“Hello, Remus,” Andromeda says. She brandishes the hot kettle in his direction. “Tea?”

Sirius can tell Remus is a bit taken aback by being threatened with his own kettle in his own kitchen, but he maintains his composure.

“Thanks ever so much,” he says, and lets Andromeda pour him one.

He throws Sirius an eloquent glance, like asking whether this is all above-board. Sirius smiles at him, and makes a point of brushing against him when he passes by.

“I’m going—upstairs?” Remus says. It comes out as a question.

“Library?” Sirius says. He smiles at Remus, and he can see the memory of what happened in the library bloom red on his face.

Remus steps on his foot. “Yes. Harry and I are going through the requirements for a Defense qualification.”

“Jolly good,” Sirius says. “Andromeda and I are just having tea.”

“Sure,” Remus says. “Okay. Andromeda, let him know if you need anything.”

He kisses Sirius’s cheek a little spitefully on his way out the door. Sirius loves him something rotten.

He and Andromeda settle in the sitting room, on opposite armchairs. Sirius doesn’t say anything when she takes Remus’s favourite armchair, and he considers that enough charity for the day.

“Let’s have it, then,” he says. “Remus says I’m channelling my resentment towards my mother into resentment towards you for talking to Narcissa.”

“Remus is still the brains of the operation, I see,” Andromeda says, and takes a prim sip of tea.

“Slander,” Sirius says. “I just don’t see how you can—”

Andromeda sighs. “Not this again.”

“Well, if you’d explain it to me, maybe…”

“You’re such a drama queen, Sirius.”

“Yeah? A shocking revelation, that,” Sirius says. “You’ve known me all my life, Dromeda, keep up.”

The barest twitch of a smile makes a brief appearance Andromeda’s face. She’s silent for a long while, looking into the empty fireplace.

“It’s not for you to say who I forgive,” Andromeda says. “I know you think your way is the only way, Sirius, but—”

“Has she apologised to you, at least?”

“What would you do if it were Regulus?” Andromeda interrupts him.

A beat.

Andromeda seems to regret her words as soon as she’s said them. Sirius suddenly feels cold, the mug in his hand the only point of warmth in the entire room.

“Don’t,” he says.

“She’s my little sister, Sirius,” Andromeda says. “And if you want to know, she’s _not_ changed, and she’s still just as awful as always, and I haven’t forgiven her one bit.”

She stops. Her voice wavers for a moment, just there, and Sirius feels like the biggest asshole in Heron Downs. What’s new?

“Dromeda—” he says, and has no clue how he intended to finish that sentence. Fortunately, Andromeda saves him.

“Her husband is in Azkaban. Where he belongs.” She sips her tea again. “Her son wrote to me. I met with him. He seems to have come to his senses a bit.” A beat. “She hasn’t.”

Silence, again, while they both absorb those words.

“I just don’t understand,” Andromeda says. Her perfect poise has cracked, and her eyes look a little wild. “How can she keep—she betrayed _him_ , in the end, so how can she not _see?_ She still holds on to—to all that. The blood purity. Surely after all that—”

She stops. Sirius looks at her in mild horror, because if this keeps going she might start crying, and they haven’t cried over their family in years. It’s not the done thing. Sirius has never been good at dealing with women crying.

“It’s all bullshit, Andromeda,” Sirius says, at length. “Of course you don’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.”

Andromeda, still turned towards the fire, wipes at her cheek surreptitiously, and Sirius is gracious enough to pretend not to notice.

“And I _don’t_ need you to be a bastard about it on top of it,” she concludes, a little haughty, and once again clear-eyed. “So you can shove it!”

“All right there,” Sirius says. “I hear you.”

He doesn’t apologise, but he does pour her another cup. He says, “I don’t know how you expect me to be anything other than a bastard, though. I mean, you’ve met my mother.”

“Merlin,” Andromeda says. “Have I.”

She looks a little bit more cheerful, at that. Probably from calling Sirius a bastard and telling him to shove it, which Sirius will gladly take. It’s not like she’s wrong. And he _really_ doesn’t want to have to figure out what to do with a crying Andromeda.

“You seem happy,” Andromeda says, after a beat of almost-comfortable silence. Which is almost as bad. “I’m glad.”

“Oh, _don’t_ be nice to me, now,” Sirius say. “I’ll just feel even worse.”

Andromeda laughs. She says, “I won’t, if you pull out something stronger than this.”

Sirius doesn’t need to be told twice.

*

Afternoon, 1st August. Remus comes downstairs to find Sirius and Andromeda roaringly drunk and draped across the two armchairs in front of the fireplace.

Sirius is laughing a howling laugh as Andromeda chronicles her last conversation with Narcissa.

“Oh, Cissy!” he cries, sliding to the floor in a heap. “She really hasn’t changed.”

Remus supposes that means they have made up.

They both insist on heading into town after, and Remus puts on a pair of trousers and follows them, grudgingly so. He’s almost sure they’re going to get up to all sorts of mischief if left to their own devices, and he’s not certain Heron Downs and the Statue of Secrecy would emerge from the ordeal unscathed.

As it is, Andromeda and Sirius end up making a pit-stop at _Clements & Singh_ just before closing time.

Sirius enters with a roaring, “Constance! Have you met my favourite cousin?”

“Oh, Sirius, dear,” Mrs Clements says, hand on her chest just short of clutching her pearls. “Are you quite all right?”

Mrs Singh is looking at them disapprovingly, mouth sucked in and lemony. She looks at Remus and her face softens a little with amusement.

“Babysitting, are you?” she says.

“Somebody has to,” Remus says. “I will pay for any damages.”

“I have a granddaughter who likes fantasy books,” Mrs Singh says.

“Bring her to the shop,” Remus says. “I’ll guarantee a discount.”

“That’s no way to run a business,” Mrs Singh says, smiling.

“You have to try these, Andromeda,” Sirius says. “Mars Bars.”

“Oh,” Andromeda says. “Ted’s tried to feed me those before. I don’t trust them. What’s the goo on the inside?”

“Nougat,” Remus says, paying for Sirius’s armful of candy.

“That,” Andromeda says, with tipsy dignity. “Is _not_ a real word.”

They end up at the local pub without incident, where they run into Mr Clements and Mr Singh, with their sons and neighbours. Remus only spares a moment of pity for them—surely they just wanted to have a quiet evening pint—before the men are swept into Sirius’s good cheer. Within ten minutes he and Andromeda have taught them the words to a lewd drinking song called _Morgan Told Me That Merlin_ and are singing at the top of their lungs.

Remus downs one single cider, which is only enough to take the edge off and make everything look slightly hilarious.

He’s giggling at Sirius’s antics soon enough—he performs the signature pelvic thrust associated with the song with entirely too much enthusiasm—and finds himself leaning into a drunk Tim Clements and singing the following verse with enough gusto to make the memory of James Potter proud.

Sirius catches his eye from across the room and smiles widely, directing the next hip thrust in his direction. Remus hopes they won't have to test this Muggle town's tolerance for homosexual PDA tonight.

But judging by how Howard Clements leans across the table and roars a laugh, slapping Sirius's shoulder approvingly, they're going to be all right.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione arrive at the pub just in time to catch the last rounds of drunken revelry, and Harry takes the scene with considerable aplomb. Sirius rushes him and wraps a secure arm around his neck, forcing him to meet every Muggle in the joint. He introduces him to everyone as, “my godson Harry, who’s going to be a _teacher_.”

“You’re of age, Harry, do you want a pint?” Mr Singh asks. “I’m buying a round.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and Ron beside him looks like Christmas came in August.

“Yes, we do!” Ron says.

When they finally make their way back to Beech Cottage, they’re all a bit worse for wear, but with all their bits in place, and the Statute of Secrecy unbroken. Remus puts Hermione up in the pull-out bed in the library and Ron and Harry in Harry’s room. Andromeda insists on Flooing home, though Remus does make sure to stick his head into the fire and receive confirmation that she arrived from an amused and puzzled Ted Tonks.

He spills a loose-limbed Sirius into bed, and finds himself pulled right along.

He falls half-on top of Sirius with a soft _‘oof’_ and they spend a few, flailing minutes trying to arrange themselves in a less uncomfortable position.

Attached to Remus’s side like a barnacle, Sirius mutters something unintelligible. He punctuates it with a wet, loud kiss to Remus’s neck.

“Love you, too,” Remus replies, and Sirius seems happy enough with that.

*

Morning, 2nd August. Remus pulls the curtains apart, letting the gloomy, milky light in. Fat, dark clouds gather at the horizon and the air smells of wet grass and dirt. Remus inhales deeply and opens the window, letting the cool air in.

It’s a welcome respite from the summer heat, and a promising morning. Sirius shifts on the bed and groans, pulling his pillow over his head.

“Is this what attempted murder feels like?” he says, his face emerging squinting from a corner of bedsheet.

“No,” Remus says, in his most condescending teacher-voice. “This, Sirius, is what we call a hangover.”

“I’m too old for this,” Sirius concludes, and then lets out a theatrical moan into his pillow.

“We’re almost forty,” Remus says in agreement. It comes out sounding more cheerful than he intends.

It feels like a good morning. A lucky morning. A storm is coming and they are, despite everything, almost forty.

Remus leaves Sirius to his death throes and goes to check on Hermione in the library. She's just letting her hair out of her nightly braids, and half her head is puffed up in curls.

“Good morning, Remus,” she says. “This sofa-bed is quite comfortable. There's meant to be a storm tonight.”

“Lovely,” Remus says. “I'm glad you slept well. Breakfast?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

The boys are considerably worse off, and Remus has barely opened the door to Harry's room before the groans reach him. The hinges squeak gleefully and Ron whimpers.

“I have Hangover Potions downstairs,” Remus says.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Ron says.

Remus has a fry up in the works when Sirius staggers downstairs and hip-checks him away from the stove.

“What are you doing to my bacon?” he mutters. He's changed out of yesterday's clothes, but he's still a little sweaty and unkempt. His hair is tangled, and the circles under his eyes are marked. He still looks better than he does on bad mornings.

“I know how to cook, you know,” Remus replies, though he lets himself be manoeuvred away.

“You cook sad food,” Sirius says. “No seasoning.”

“Not all of us learned from Mrs Potter herself,” Remus reasons. “And you should be nicer to me. I have the good potions.”

Sirius pokes at Remus's bacon, and finds no fault in it. A lazy flick of his wand sends mushrooms to chop themselves, a flurry of herbs and spices following in their wake.

He turns around and drapes himself on Remus's back, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Moony,” he croons. “Remember you love me.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but he still goes through the potions cabinet dutifully.

Hermione is the first to join them at the kitchen table, bringing with her the Muggle paper and a Transfiguration book. She's scribbled all over a piece of parchment and she grabs a piece of toast from the basket Sirius placed on the table.

Ron and Harry tumble in not long after, looking sickly and dishevelled. Remus passes them their potions with no further word, and the grateful look Ron Weasley shoots him borders on worshipful.

“I'll help,” Harry says, collapsed on the kitchen table.

“You'll be quiet,” Sirius tells him, dropping a steaming plate of bacon in front of him.

“The sausages and tomatoes are in the pan, and the eggs will take no time. Mushrooms are coming. Moony is making tea. You'll sit down and let me give you a Saturday fry-up.”

Harry shoots him a languid, grateful look from under the fall of his messy hair. “You don't have to.”

“Of course I don't,” Sirius says. “But I'm an extraordinary godfather.”

Harry grins, and Remus hides a smile into a fresh cup of tea.

The morning passes cheerfully, through the sky outside grows darker and darker. Rain starts falling around lunchtime, and Remus peers out the window hopefully. Harry is at his side, and there's a sort of ringing, nervous tension in him.

“Did you know Sirius woke me up at dawn this morning, just to remind me to say the incantation?” Harry whispers. “If it storms today—”

“It should be the last time you do that,” Remus says.

Harry nods, and he looks out at the blackening clouds, his shoulders tight and a hard, wild look in his eye.

“Are you ready?” Remus asks.

Harry doesn't look at him. His eyes are far away, lost in the distance. He smiles faintly.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I think I really am."

*

Evening, 2nd August. The storm comes.


	11. Whiskers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment of truth!

The first crack of thunder has them all rushing downstairs, a great mass of people yelling at each other in the living room.

“Harry—don't forget your coat. You too, Sirius.”

Sirius shoves a coat at Harry, accidentally giving him his own. They're too keyed up to notice and Remus doesn't correct them.

“Here we go!” Ron yells. “It’s happening!”

“Apparate at the meadow!” Hermione says.

“See you all there,” Sirius replies, and beams at her before disappearing with a crack. Harry is conspicuously silent, and despite his earlier words he looks a little ill and sallow.

“The potion!” Hermione cries, and Remus is struck by the horror of having almost forgotten it.

“I have it,” Harry says quietly. He touches the pocket of his jeans, and then takes a deep breath. "Let's go."

They Apparate in the meadow just as thunder cracks again. Fat raindrops fall on Harry's hair, almost flattening it. They all stand in a loose circle around him, and Remus feels the odd weight of the moment, and the awkwardness of having an audience.

Sirius grabs Harry by the shoulders. The rain roars around them.

“Forget about everything else,” he says. “Can you feel it?”

“I—” Harry says. “Er. I don't know.”

“Sure you can,” Sirius says. He puts a knobby, scarred, tattooed hand on Harry's chest. “Right here. It wants you to find it. Do you feel it?”

Harry takes a ragged breath. Remus sees his thin shoulders heave with it.

“Yes,” Harry croaks.

“Good lad,” Sirius says. “Now drink it.”

The potion in Harry's hand glows white. It looks nothing like it did when Harry first put it away in the pantry, at the heart of their house, where it was cool and dry and quiet.

Harry takes a deep breath and knocks it back. Thunder cracks again.

Sirius claps a hand on his mouth just as Harry makes a low, disgusted sound in his throat.

“That's good, keep it down,” Sirius says. His forehead is close to Harry's and their hair black and wild, mingling. “You're not gonna waste all these months now. You're almost there, Harry. Do you see it?”

Harry whimpers against Sirius's hand.

When Sirius pulls away he nods and says, his voice shaking, “It wants me to chase it.”

Sirius smiles a slow, almost predatory smile. “So chase it.”

Harry gasps. His fingers tighten into claws, convulsing where they hold fast on Sirius's shoulders. He cries out, a sharp, bitten-off sound, and Remus sees his green eyes widen, his pupil go suddenly narrow.

Another crack of thunder. A flash of light. Harry's gone.

They all stand in a circle with an empty space in the middle, where Harry was. Rain keeps coming down, getting into Remus's eyes.

“Harry?” Hermione calls. Then, increasingly hysterical, “ _Harry_!”

Harry’s name echoes across the meadow, all their voices joining in. The grass is tall and wet and Remus can feel water in his shoes.

Then—something moves, quick, against his leg.

“Harry?” he calls, looking down.

A soft sound, from deep into the grass.

“Oh," Sirius says. “Bugger.”

*

They burst into the house just as loudly as they'd left it, Sirius leading the charge with a squirming, furry bundle in his arms, wrapped in his own coat.

Behind him, Remus yells, “Towels!”

 _You're a wizard_ , Sirius thinks, but he doesn't object as Remus rushes into the bathroom. Hermione is already taking off her coat and casting drying charms on herself and Ron.

Harry, in Sirius's arms, yowls loudly.

Sirius grins down at him, excitement in his chest like a balloon. It almost feels like the high of the first time, when he'd first chased the ghost of Padfoot across the landscape of his own mind. He remembers the call of it—the way he could sense the dog's presence daring him to follow. The chase. The swoop in his stomach as the change overcame him for the first time, the dizzying sensation of the world shaking and changing, his body running away from him. Becoming something else.

The way the world had been nearer, sharper, louder, brighter. The way every smell hit his nose, like the world had just acquired a fourth dimension. The colours had dimmed, but the world had exploded in smells.

Harry yowls again.

“Now,” Sirius says, transporting him into the couch. He's surprisingly light, skinny underneath the fur. “Don't be so dramatic. You'll figure out how to turn back in a second.”

He has a good feeling about this, even with Harry's claws digging into his arm, sharp enough to draw blood.

Remus returns with two towels. One he drops on Sirius's head without ceremony, the other he wraps around Harry, lifting him out of Sirius's arms.

“There,” Remus says. “It's quite all right.”

Harry seems marginally placated by Remus's reasonable tone. He peeks out of the towel, one fluffy black ear and a pair of wide green eyes. He mews softly.

“Sprog,” Sirius says, smiling widely. “You're bloody adorable.”

Harry hisses and jumps right out of Remus's arms.

He lands on his feet on the carpet, and shakes out his fur, which puffs out angrily.

He's a cat. A big cat—though Sirius now knows his mass is about ninety percent long black fur, dense at his neck and fluffy like a lion's mane.

“Harry!” Hermione says, beaming. Harry looks up at her with wide cat eyes and meows. “Harry, you're a Maine Coon!”

“Ah,” Remus says, tilting his head. “You’re right.”

Harry looks up at the armchair with calculating eyes, squats, wiggles his behind, and jumps up on it, only a little wobbly. Once there, he curls up and automatically raises a paw to his tongue, before pausing and looking down at it like it betrayed him.

“You'll get the hang of it," Sirius says, perching on the arm of the couch and reaching down a careful hand to scratch behind Harry's ear. “Don't fight the instincts, it's better if you just go with the flow.”

Harry's eyes narrow to slits and he starts purring.

“Yes, exactly,” Sirius says, delighted. “You’re a natural.”

Harry finds out how to turn back that night, to Remus’s evident relief. Sirius wasn’t as worried, despite Hermione’s constant reminders that remaining stuck as an animal is an expected risk of the Animagus spell.

They still manage to convince her and Ron to go home. Or rather, Remus does, among many a reassurance that he’ll keep an eye on Harry personally, and will let them know if he hasn’t turned back before the morning.

Harry turns back into himself two hours later, while taking a well-deserved nap on the carpet. He’s completely naked. Sirius tosses a blanket on top of him, while he keeps snoozing.

“He’ll figure out how to keep his clothes on, eventually,” Sirius says. “Oh, look, there’s his wand.”

He picks it up and cheerfully places it on the mantelpiece, for Harry to find when he wakes. He turns to Remus, who’s curled up in his favourite armchair, clutching a cup of tea and looking at Harry pensively.

“No need to look so worried still, Remus,” Sirius says, and sits down on the carpet. He leans back against Remus’s legs, and sure enough, Remus’s fingers are soon in his hair. Can’t keep the man away, really.

“I know,” Remus says. “I can’t quite help it. It’s annoying.”

“He’s made the transformation, he’s turned back within twenty-four hours,” Sirius says, counting the signs of an effective Animagus spell on his fingers. “If he can turn into a cat again without issue, I’d say it’s a success.”

Remus’s fingers scratch at his scalp, and Sirius suddenly keenly understands Harry’s instinct to purr. His go-to reaction would be wagging his tail, of course, but he finds himself without at the moment.

“He really did it,” Remus whispers. Sirius can hear the smile in his voice.

“He really did,” Sirius replies, leaning his head against Remus’s knee and closes his eyes. “Our Sprog.”

Harry shifts in his sleep, curled up like he still thinks he’s a cat. There is no fire in the hearth, but Sirius feels the warmth of it anyway.

*

Over the next few days, Remus learns a few things.

First of all, that James, Sirius, and Peter had hidden quite a few days of trial-and-error from him. It takes Harry a few days to stop looking surprised every time he goes to lick himself. Or purr. Or do anything vaguely cat-like.

He wakes late into the evening of that first day, and smiles soft and triumphant up at Sirius for a moment. Then, he seems to notice his own lack of clothes, and glows with embarrassment.

Sirius barks a loud laugh, and helps him up.

Harry tries to turn back the following morning, and this time the transformation is slower. He's not gone in the blink of an eye, but they can see him fold into the cat in the same way Sirius folds into Padfoot.

“That's very good,” Sirius says. Harry meows at his feet and pads into a quick circle, mystified by his own fluffy tail. Sirius continues, “You can control the speed of transformation with a little practice. Try to turn back slowly, now—and try to visualise your clothes while you do.”

Harry turns back without incident, though he's missing a sock and his shirt.

“Progress,” Remus declares.

“This is—a problem,” Harry says, plucking at his surviving sweatpants. He flushes. “Uh. I think my underwear's gone too.”

“Saucy,” Sirius says. “I approve.”

“But where does it _go_?” Harry sighs. “I really liked that shirt.”

“Many a shirt has been sacrificed to the pursuit of great magical feats,” Sirius says reasonably. “Isn't that right, Remus?”

Remus hums, while flipping through the Daily Prophet. There's an obnoxious article loudly wondering on the whereabouts of the Boy-Who-Lived, who hasn't been seen in Wizarding society for the entire summer. How dreadful.

Remus spills tea on the page. He makes a pointed show of tossing it in the bin.

Remus also finds out that Harry-the-cat likes to perch on high surfaces. In the week following his transformation, Harry spends a large amount of time as a cat, testing his instincts. He starts by jumping onto any surface within reach. He seems to enjoy that immensely, blinking up wide green eyes at Remus from the dresser and meowing smugly.

“Yes, I'm very proud of you,” Remus says. “Please, Harry, can you not knock down the good china, though?”

Harry starts grooming his paw nonchalantly, like he'd _never_ dream of knocking down any of Remus's things. Like Remus didn't find suspicious bits of pottery and the remains of a decorative plate in the bin just yesterday.

Harry also experiments with climbing _them_ —Remus especially. He jumps from whatever high surface he has scaled at the moment to perch on Remus's shoulders and travel that way.

“He likes to be tall, I think,” Sirius says with a smirk, scratching behind Harry's ear. Harry's eyes narrow, and he allows it for a moment before turning up his tail and hopping off Remus's shoulders.

“I _am_ tall,” he says, once he's turned back into himself, still missing a sock and half a shirt sleeve. “I'm taller than you!”

Sirius gasps, supremely offended. “I can't believe you'd talk to me like that.”

As Sirius is about to launch into another _me, the godfather who loves you_ , speech, Harry turns into a cat again. He turns his tail up and swiftly and silently exits the room.

Remus laughs, earning himself a betrayed glare from Sirius. He can feel a _me, the boyfriend who loves you_ , speech incoming, so he kisses Sirius's cheek instead.

“Serves you right,” Remus says. “It's for all those times you turned into a dog to avoid doing the dishes.”

The third thing Remus learns is that Padfoot and Harry are much more prone to cuddling when they’re both turned.

It’s a curious thing. Sirius is never shy with physical affection anyway, and is likely to sling an arm around Harry’s shoulders, or pat his back, or ruffle his hair. But the way Padfoot bothers Harry-the-cat is much more… well, dogged.

Remus finds Padfoot sniffing at Harry’s mane and earning himself a swat with a clawed paw. He finds Padfoot crouching and play-fighting, and Harry either jumping to a higher surface—at which point Padfoot whines pitifully up at him—or turning around and play-hissing. He finds them tussling more than once.

And one memorable time, Padfoot walks into the kitchen, nails tick-ticking against the floor, tongue lolling out and pleased, with Harry perched in a tight ball on his back.

“Oh, I see,” Remus says to them both. Harry’s green eyes are narrowed and peaceful and Sirius looks delighted at being used as a mode of transportation.

The fourth thing Remus learns is that Harry sheds much, much more than Padfoot ever did.

*

Harry’s about to jump from the chest of drawers in the sitting room to the mantelpiece (from which, Sirius knows, he’ll hop onto the bookshelf next to the fireplace and start climbing until he’s at the very top and can sit there surveying the room) when Sirius intercepts him and scoops him up.

“Your fur’s very soft, Sprog, you know?” Sirius says, scratching him behind the ear. Harry makes a sound of protest in his arms, but he doesn’t wiggle free. He’s very wiggly, when he wants to be.

Harry’s ears prick, and his little head comes up to turn towards the door. He meows.

There’s a knock.

“Who is it then?” Sirius says. The light, warm weight of the cat in his arms does a lot to calm the way his heart starts suddenly kicking. So does the fact that Harry, though he remains alert, relaxes against Sirius’s chest again. His breath is slow and calm. Sirius goes to open the door, still petting him absent-mindedly.

Mrs Clements is at the door, and Sirius had almost forgotten inviting her for tea, one of these days. She’s carrying another series of Tupperwares, though these seem to be filled with baked goods.

“You still don’t have a phone, Sirius,” Mrs Clements says. “I’d call ahead if only I knew the number! Oh, but who’s this handsome lad?”

Harry’s ears prick, and he seems to remember, suddenly, that he is a cat. He meows sheepishly. Sirius wonders when he became able to pick apart Harry’s moods when transformed.

Harry’s ears twitch back towards his skull a little, but he lets Mrs Clements reach out a hand to pet him gently on the head. He looks supremely ashamed when she scratches behind his ear and he starts purring involuntarily.

“Ah, yes,” Sirius says. “Er… Remus and I found him in the back garden. You know how Remus is. Can’t let a stray go without feeding it. And he, uh… took a liking to us, I guess.”

“Well, he’s just a beauty, isn’t he?” Mrs Clements says, still relentlessly petting a panicking Harry. “And those eyes—so green! Oh, but he must shed a lot, with all this glossy fur.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Sirius says. He’s perhaps starting to enjoy this a little too much.

“What’s his name then?”

Sirius freezes. Harry freezes. Sirius can feel the pin-pricks of his little nails starting to dig into his forearm, and the soft swish of a fluffy tail cutting the air and hitting his side.

“Whiskers,” he blurts out.

Harry yowls, and the threat of claws into his arm becomes a painful reality. Sirius yelps and lets him go. Harry lands in a yelling, indignant heap on his soft feet, tail swishing angrily and fur puffed to twice his size. They only have a moment to gape after him before he’s gone—a black blur darting out of the foyer and into the kitchen.

“Oh, goodness,” Mrs Clements says. “Sirius, dear, are you alright?”

Sirius is bleeding a little, but is otherwise unscathed. “Don’t worry about it at all, Constance. Did I mention he was a stray? Too much attention sometimes causes him stress.”

Harry yowls again from the kitchen, and then Sirius hears the tell-tale sound of transformation, followed by the backdoor to the garden slamming shut.

“Tea?” Sirius says to Mrs Clements, smiling brightly.

“We should really disinfect that cut,” Mrs Clements says. “Don’t you have a first-aid kit?”

“Of course,” Sirius says. “Just let me put the kettle on for you.”

Mrs Clements lets herself be ushered into the kitchen and to the table. Harry is nowhere to be seen, probably brooding somewhere in the garden. Sirius makes a good show of going to the bathroom to disinfect his bleeding cuts, putting a few plasters on to disguise their complete absence when he returns.

“How does Padfoot get along with Whiskers, then?” Mrs Clements asks, once Sirius has returned.

“Oh, Padfoot’s a champ,” Sirius says. “Lets the little thing climb all over him. Whiskers is the temperamental one, you know?”

“Padfoot is such a gentle boy,” Mrs Clements agrees, nodding sagely. “I’m sure they’ll find their equilibrium. Oh, but all the fur must be a real issue.”

Sirius has a vivid flashback of Remus threatening to withdraw sexual favours if Sirius doesn’t start picking up after his own shedding. He can’t imagine he offered Harry the same threat, but the sentiment remains.

“They’re surprisingly good at cleaning after themselves,” Sirius says.

Harry, once again human, chooses that moment to walk back in from the garden, wiping his sneakers on the mat like he’s also remembering Remus’s loud thoughts on cleaning up after themselves. He throws Sirius a withering look, which Sirius responds to with a bright smile.

“Hullo, Sprog,” he says, cheerfully.

“Hullo, Mrs Clements,” Harry says, clearly choosing to be the bigger person. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Oh, likewise, my dear,” Mrs Clements says, looking chuffed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Harry says, with much dignity. “I have to go deal with a mess Padfoot made.”

Once he’s gone again, Sirius turns towards Mrs Clements and says, “Teenagers, you know? Also quite temperamental.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I hope the reveal of Harry's Animagus form lived up to your expectations. I thought a lot about what animal it would be, but I kept coming back to the Maine Coon, because it looks so much like a very small lion (and because I'm slightly obsessed with them... they're so cute!)
> 
> I also spent a lot of time thinking about Harry-the-cat's name, and for the life of me I couldn't come up with anything good enough. Then the image of Sirius panicking when naming him came to me, and I thought it was just too funny not to include. So here we are. [This is what Whiskers looks like.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/7417b3d96e5830e8c9113db1bfb00a52/7986192b58db6e63-15/s540x810/e2e03fcff760b762344b661840c7064a115279d0.jpg)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading and a special, heartfelt thanks to recurring commenters! You guys bring me joy and I'm sorry I'm so behind on replying to you all <3 
> 
> I hope everyone is in good health and continues to be!


	12. Marauders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no need to say that at the time of writing this (05-04-2020), things are incredibly scary and uncertain for all of us. I wrote these last two chapters so long ago, much earlier than everything that's happening now, but somehow this story still brings me comfort in these trying times. I was so glad to hear it did the same for some of you!
> 
> I think we all feel the need to fall back on familiar comforts as things become uncertain. This story is _about_ coming home, and coming back to these characters always feels like a homecoming in itself. 
> 
> I just want you all to know that I'm OK and under quarantine with my family. I hope the same is true for all of you reading.
> 
> As this fic nears the end, I just want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your kind words <3 It is very special to me and I'm so glad you liked it. Reading your comments is a huge comfort, especially these days!

Harry jumps with soft paws on the table in the middle of the library, nosing at the uncurled rolls of parchment Remus left lying around.

“I always wonder if you can read, while like that,” Remus says. “It never occurred to me to ask Sirius, I guess.”

Harry hops on the chair opposite Remus’s. In a moment, he’s a boy again. Miraculously with all his clothes on.

“Sirius can read?” he asks, candid eyes blinking innocently. Mischief in the dimple on his cheek.

Remus smirks at him. “Well?”

“I can read,” Harry says. “I don’t like to, though. Not when I’m like that.”

Remus returns the innocently blinking eyes at him. “And you like to read when you’re like this?”

Harry throws a spare bit of parchment at him. Then he pulls a heavy text-book close, and starts examining the notes Remus made at the margin.

They’re almost done with the NEWT curriculum. Tomorrow, they’re going out into the meadow for practical training, but Remus is more than confident that Harry will be able to pass his exams, and go on to specialise.

It’s been strange and wonderful, to be Harry’s teacher again. It makes Remus’s chest feel a little tight—it makes him miss his days teaching Defence.

His current life is blessed, he knows, and yet he can’t help but—feel cheated. It’s a dull ache, like a mostly-healed bruise. It had been a flaming, angry wound five years ago.

It has nothing to do with Harry, anyway. Harry continues to be a bright student, and the exchange of thoughts and ideas with him is starting to slowly grow out of a teacher-student exchange. Remus can see it, in the way his eyes go bright in talking about the intricacies of curse-breaking, in the way he argues on the safe navigation of kelpie-infested waters, how it’s going to be to talk to him about their subject when he’s qualified.

It feels, a little, like taking his rightful place in Harry’s life.

It’s been a slower process for Remus, in some ways. He doesn’t have an easy word that Harry can call him. He’s only his parents’ old friend, his old teacher. Harry’s godfather’s lover? That is a tenuous description at best.

When he’d first seen Harry, on that train carriage years ago, his grief—which had grown in the long years to become almost a living thing, a tangible presence in him—took a new, sharp edge. Until then, whenever he’d thought of missing Harry, he’d thought of the chubby-cheeked little baby he’d last seen.

That had been bad enough without seeing the lanky, scared, brave thirteen-year-old he’d become, and realising exactly how much of Harry’s life he’d missed.

_We missed so much,_ _Moony_ , Sirius told him, one night, in the year after his escape. He’d been bony and haunted and almost-feral, still, and his eyes had been huge and red-rimmed and hungry. _We should have seen him grow up._

And then Christmas came, during Harry’s fifth year.

They were in the library, among the remains of some of those cursed objects they’d been trying to clean up. Sirius’s smile hadn’t been quite enough to hide the bags under his eyes, or how skinny he’d gotten, how Remus could feel each distinct rib under his hands.

He still wanted to put his hands there.

They’d just blasted out a pearl necklace that made its wearer woozy and prone to stumbling out of windows. The ground was littered with fallen, glinting pearls.

“Do you think that’s part of the curse?” Remus said, when Sirius almost slid right to the ground, slipping on a stray one.

“What, making me brain myself by slipping on one of these things?” Sirius said, finally making it across the room to Remus.

He practically fell into Remus’s arms, heavy for somebody who seemed to weigh about a stone, huffing a laugh into Remus’s neck.

Sirius’s family library was a grimy, gloomy place, stacked with mouldy books on nasty topics, as liable to hex you as to let themselves be read, and yet Remus, for a second, counted himself lucky.

He’d never really thought he’d get to be here again—with Sirius laughing into his neck, his skinny hipbones under Remus’s hands.

“Hey,” Remus said, and Sirius tilted up his smiling mouth.

“What?” Sirius asked, brushing his unkempt hair out of his eyes.

Remus kissed him, by way of an answer. Sirius startled, and Remus could _feel_ his gasp—the puff of warm breath against his cheek, the jolt of Sirius’s body, the sharp inhale making his ribcage expand. Like it was still, always, a surprise to be kissed.

There had been a time when kisses were normal, when there wasn’t a day that passed without him kissing Sirius.

Then Sirius relaxed, kissed him back, mouth soft and a little chapped, hands tracing Remus’s cheekbones, feather-light. And Remus didn’t have any more heart to spare for thoughts of what they’d had, or what they’d lost.

“Sirius, have you seen— _oh._ ”

They sprung apart, to find Harry at the door, one hand holding onto the doorframe, the other hanging limp at his side. At fifteen he was lanky and still a little shorter than Remus, though he’d just about caught up to Sirius.

His mouth was open in astonishment, and he repeated, softly, “ _Oh._ ”

Remus and Sirius had never particularly _thought_ about telling Harry. Not when they’d only rekindled whatever was between them so recently—when it felt fragile between them to begin with.

Part of Remus realised, right then, that he should have known. It was inevitable that Harry would stumble onto the truth if they didn’t tell him first.

He was James’s son, after all. And James had always managed to find out every one of their truths.

“Harry—” Sirius started, and then seemed to run out of steam, trailing off into silence.

Harry didn’t look upset, Remus thought. A little bewildered, as if both Remus and Sirius had sprouted a second head each.

“You’re—” Harry said, in the awkward silence. “Er—since when?”

It made Remus’s almost laugh, the graceless question.

“Come sit down, Harry,” he said, smoothing down Sirius’s wrinkled shirt, and gesturing to a dusty chaise longue covered in green velvet cushions.

Harry sat on command, but didn’t take his eyes off of them, even as they broke apart and Remus took a seat on a chair opposite him, Sirius leaning precariously against a bookshelf.

“Sirius and I—” Remus started, finding it surprisingly hard to conjure the right words. Sirius and Harry seemed to be of no help, looking at each other and looking away in turn. Looking towards Remus as if he had the power to dispel their mutual embarrassment.

“We’re together,” Remus said, and did his best not to look up to Sirius for confirmation. That would have felt entirely too pathetic. “We—we were together at school. Before the war. And now we are again.”

It sounded so simple, when put like that. Inevitable, almost. Of course, it glossed over all those years in-between, and all their terrible things.

Remus couldn’t help looking at Sirius, then, and found him looking back. His sunken eyes were warm, and when he smiled, for a moment, he almost looked like he had back then. A young man, in love, just on the edge of being great.

Then Sirius turned to look at Harry, and his brow furrowed. He visibly fought against saying something for a moment, and then blurted out, “Is that all right, Harry?”

“Oh!” Harry said, and straightened from his slump. “O-of course! Just. I just hadn’t—well, I had no idea.”

This made Sirius smile again. “We did send you a joint present.”

Harry flushed, and crossed his arms. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

Sirius, finally, laughed, and Remus felt his own shoulders slump in relief. He hadn’t realised how important this was—how Harry’s opinion could make or break them right now—until he’d been presented with the reality of trying to come out to James’s son.

Harry’s mouth trembled very slightly, and he kicked at the pearls on the ground.

“Did my dad know?” he asked. He was trying to be casual, but he was fifteen and as subtle as an elephant.

Remus held his breath and felt the moment fragile as a charm.

Sirius shattered it without grace. “Oh, James? Absolutely. Made fun of me for _weeks_ for being too coward to tell Remus I fancied him. Then I pointed out at least Remus hadn’t turned _me_ down twice just that week and almost hexed me the one before. He didn’t speak to me for a whole _hour._ ”

Harry’s mouth twitched, a smile about to bloom.

“That was a lot, for James,” Remus interjected. “He could never keep up the silent treatment.”

“And when we finally got our shit together, he said—”

Remus gasped, and in Sirius’s _James voice_ said, “I just realized—whose best man am I going to _be_?”

Harry laughed. He kicked some more spare cursed pearls, and he looked at them with sparkling eyes. And that was when Remus realised that even though they’d lost years there was still so much to do, and that the only way to be something to Harry in the years that would come would be to… be there.

To be there would be enough.

_We should have seen him grow up,_ Sirius had said to him.

And now, not for the first time, he looks at this nineteen-year-old Harry, so young and yet grown-up in unexpected ways, and thinks, _We have._

"Remus," Harry says, still bent over his parchment, where he's sketching the solution to a classic Redcap Escape problem.

"Yes?" Remus says, still scanning Harry's previous essay answer— _Detail The Distinguishing Features Of A Kneazle For Eight Points_ —and yet bracing himself for the question. He knows that tone. It's Potter-speak for _, I'm about to start trouble._

"The full moon is in a week," Harry says, casually, though his fingers twitch and the end of his quill enters biting range. Quill biting: another Potter sign for nervousness.

"So it is," Remus says. He's starting to have an idea of where this is going.

He does not like it one bit.

"You haven't even heard what I want to say yet!" Harry says.

The amusement in his tone startles Remus, and when Harry looks up at him he's smirking.

"You're tapping your fingers against the desk," Harry says. "And when you're about to disapprove you get this—pinched look." Harry pinches his own face in demonstration.

"I do not—" Remus says, "—look like that."

It comes out as half a laugh. It is a surprise to catalogue Harry's responses and expressions—and then be caught off-guard by him. It’s silly—he knows Harry. It is only natural that he'd be known in return.

It almost makes him want to give into Harry's request.

"You want to join us on the full moon," Remus sighs, abandoning all pretence. He puts his parchment down, and sees Harry put aside his quill in return.

"Yes!" Harry says. "Come on, Remus. That's the whole point of the spell!"

Remus frowns. "I thought you'd decided to do the spell in order to—find yourself."

It sounds a bit pathetic, when put like that, and Harry's exasperated look speaks for itself.

"I mean, sure," Harry says. "But I did it to feel closer to you two. And you did the spell so they could go out during the full moon with you." He raises his arms, and gestures out to the woods. He looks frustrated, as if words were failing him. "Do you see?"

Remus looks out to the woods, where Harry is pointing, and he—he does see. Sometimes he thinks that it was the spell that brought them together, but that is not true.

They did the spell to _be_ together. Not the other way around.

Remus lets out another, long sigh. It's useless. He knew he'd lose this battle when Sirius first smiled at him and said, _He'll want to come out with us once it's done._

He'd known all along. Sirius has a habit of being infuriatingly right about these things.

"All right," Remus says. "We can talk about it with Sirius."

Harry's face opens up into a wide grin. He knows that Sirius will say yes.

Remus doesn't even know why he tries.

Then Harry goes slowly quiet, and levels Remus a long, pensive look.

“Are you really okay with it?” Harry asks, after a beat.

Remus frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to—” Harry huffs. “Push you into it. It’s no good if you don’t want me there.”

Remus feels his heart crack a little. Harry’s looking at him with wide green eyes, so painfully earnest.

Remus loves him a little more every day.

“Harry,” Remus says, and he sighs again. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ you there. Of course I do. It’s just—”

It’s just it had been easier to allow this transgression when they were fifteen and reckless, with James and Sirius there to sweep him into the mischief of it all. When he hadn’t _quite_ known what it meant to lose everything, when he’d only just started to understand what it meant to _have_ something. To be allowed to have it.

When he’d been desperate to have someone to run into the night with him.

_I don’t want him to see me that way again,_ he remembers. And he remembers what Sirius had said to that.

“I am not who I usually am, on full moons,” Remus says. “I need you to know that. That’s all.”

Harry nods slowly. He doesn’t offer reassurances, or try to tell Remus he has nothing to worry about. Sirius might have done that. James might have smiled and told Remus he sure thought he was a big bad wolf, huh?

Harry only nods, and takes his words seriously. He says, “All right.”

It’s surprisingly refreshing.

And that, more than anything else, makes Remus think that this might be—if not a good idea, then not the worst one they’ve ever had.

Which, to be fair, isn’t saying much. They’ve had some pretty bad ideas, over the years.

*

The day of the full moon dawns as usual, with Remus hot and sweaty and plastered against Sirius’s back.

He’s not quite awake, though Sirius feels the hardness pressed against his backside already. He feels Remus’s huffing breaths warm against the nape of his neck, the grasping hands digging into his hips.

There’s something so delicious about Remus like this—reaching out, taking, giving in.

Sirius has, in his long career as Remus Lupin’s Boyfriend, learned a thing or two about making Remus let go. Making him lose control. It’s a hard-won reward at the end of a long journey—though the journey is often reward itself.

But this—the way Remus sometimes reaches for him, already there, already wanting Sirius beyond reason and thought—that’s always heady.

It could make a man go mad.

Remus isn’t quite awake, but he’s awake enough to whine into Sirius’s ear.

“Pads—” he calls.

“All right, darling,” Sirius says, and turns to gather his Moony into his arms, all sweaty matted hair and awkward elbows.

Remus’s pointy nose goes straight for the soft spot behind Sirius’s ear, where he inhales deeply. It’s flattering, really—Sirius doesn’t think he smells of anything more than sleep, but Remus is always greedy for it, when he’s like this.

Sirius can oblige. He twists his fingers in Remus’s hair, and with the other hand pulls one of Remus’s bare thighs up and around his waist. He takes his time with it, running his fingers along the length of it, skimming the soft skin of his inner thigh.

He digs his fingers in, and Remus makes a sharp sound into his neck. His hands are also restless, as if they don't know where to rest on Sirius's body—making a desperate way from his back, to his biceps, his hair, his hips.

"Don't be an arse," Remus says, and Sirius would even go as far as calling it a whine. "Get to it."

"Needy, needy," Sirius says, and flips them so he's on top, between Remus's legs. And what a place to be.

Remus looks up at him, a little dazed, a little hazy like he gets when he needs it particularly badly. Duty calls.

He kisses Remus, heedless of morning breath or any small matters like that. He has a mission, here, and it is to grind into Remus Lupin's hips and kiss him senseless. He mostly succeeds, of course, though the 'senseless' part always takes a little more effort. His Moony is annoyingly eloquent, even when it's inappropriate to the situation.

He does put his back into it, kissing Sirius back and matching him in fervour. Moony's tongue in his mouth is always a wonder.

Sirius pulls away, if reluctantly, and comes back for seconds. Remus chases his mouth, and Sirius can't help but drop another kiss on his lips, and another, and another.

Finally, he manages to tear himself away from Remus's lovely mouth, only because there is the attraction of Remus's equally lovely neck to call to him. He feathers light kisses there, making Remus squirm, and then—he bites down.

Remus cries out, and if Sirius could bottle up a sound, have it on repeat for the rest of his life, it would be this. Remus's hands claw at his back, and Sirius knows he will feel the sting long after they're done.

He sucks on Remus's neck, and leaves a few choice hickeys, as he makes his way ever downward.

Remus particularly likes to use his mouth on full moons, but Sirius has no intention of letting him have all the fun.

He makes sure to touch as much of Remus as he can, even as he swallows him down, hums around the weight on his tongue and lets Remus's desperate sounds wash over him. A hand sliding up across Remus's chest, pressing on his belly, another running up and down Remus's pale thigh, which is wrapped around his neck.

And when that hand makes its way still further down, finding Remus where he's still a little open from last night, well—Remus at least isn't complaining, judging from his sounds. He especially isn't complaining when Sirius's mouth follows and proceeds to eat him out like it's a sport.

Like in most things, Sirius prefers to win.

He stops only when Remus is trembling and shouting above him, and Sirius can practically feel the silencing charms straining under the sound. He wipes his wet mouth on his arm, and sees Remus follow the movement with hungry eyes.

“Come here,” he says. “Sirius—”

He says Sirius’s name again, when Sirius climbs into his arms and kisses his neck. His fingers find Sirius’s messy hair without fail, twisting until he can pull Sirius’s head back and kiss his equally messy mouth.

Sirius is almost sure he’d have taken more heed of where that mouth has been, normally, but Remus on a full moon morning is a wholly instinctual creature.

And just as instinctual, it seems, is flipping them over so he’s kneeling over Sirius’s lap, and sinking down on his cock.

It’s Sirius’s turn to try the silencing charms. His ears are ringing, and he’s not sure what kind of sound he makes, but it’s—loud.

Remus sighs, his entire body relaxing down onto Sirius. The cheeky bugger—while Sirius is tense and fraying at the edges underneath him, fingers clawing at those skinny hips and trying not to move. He smiles down at Sirius like he’s about to eat him alive.

And then rides him to kingdom come.

His Moony never disappoints.

*

Despite Sirius’s best efforts to tire him out and help him unwind, Remus is still a ball of nerves that night, as the light slowly fades over the countryside. The sun dips behind the outline of the trees at the edge of their land, and Remus paces the kitchen, rattling off anxious advice.

“And if you can’t keep up with us, that’s all right—and if I get a little too aggressive, Pads, you have to make sure to distract me—”

“Moony, Moony, Moony,” Sirius says, and intercepts him on his tenth circuit of the room. “Have you taken your potion?”

“Yes, of course,” Remus snaps.

“So you have nothing to worry about,” Sirius says. He might as well have said nothing, because he _knew_ the incendiary look Remus would send him in response.

And there it is. Remus glares at him, like Sirius has suddenly lost his entire mind.

Harry sits on the sofa, and says, “Remus, we don’t have to—”

That, surprisingly, seems to make Remus deflate in a hurry.

“No, Harry,” Remus says. “It’s okay. I’m just a little—”

“Moon-crazy,” Sirius finishes.

“I’m pretty sure that’s offensive,” Harry observes sharply.

And on that cheerful note, Remus slaps his arm and turns to Harry to make sure he knows how to find the meadow even as a cat.

The one stipulation Remus had made, in all this, had been that he didn’t want Harry to watch him transform. Harry and Sirius, conscious that they were asking much already, had not dared to argue this. And Sirius can understand it—even Remus knows, rationally, that Harry has seen him as a wolf before, and survived it just fine. That it changed nothing in his and Remus’s relationship.

But the transformation—it had taken _years_ for Remus to let himself be seen during the transformation. There’s something unbearably vulnerable in letting someone watch your body tear itself apart.

It shows up in Sirius’s nightmares sometimes. He’d never tell Remus this—Remus would make him stop watching.

And in truth, in so many of his nightmares, he knows Remus is turning, in pain, and he can do nothing to reach him. The worst nightmares are the ones where he can’t see Remus at all.

*

They prepare for the moon in silence. Harry closes all the windows in the house, locks all the doors. They’ll be gone all night.

Remus paces, listless, on their back-porch, looking at the fading light.

And Sirius watches Remus.

The truth is that summers are a blessing. The night is so blissfully short. It’s late, and yet the sun is only just fading behind the horizon.

Not long now.

Harry appears at his back and touches Sirius’s shoulder gently. “It’s all closed up. Do you want to go?”

Sirius nods, and turns around to look at Harry’s bright green eyes. He looks a little hesitant, as restless as Remus seems to be. Uncertain.

Sirius smiles at him and clasps his shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, kid,” he says. “It’ll be fine.” His grin widens, sharpens. “You run under the full moon once, I swear you’ll never stop.”

Harry huffs, a small smile finally dawning on his face. There’s a little mischief there. It makes Sirius’s heart fill entirely too full. Too proud.

Sirius hugs him, because he’s never be one for denying his urges, and because Harry is scared, and brave, and right there.

“We’ll see you in the meadow,” he says, into Harry’s ear. “Don’t be late.”

Remus is standing with his back to them, but he turns around as if he’s heard them. He probably has. All his senses sharpen as the moon fills, and they’re right at the edge of it, about to tumble into the night.

They go.

*

There is a third shadow in the night.

Moony’s nose picks up the scent of it—the little creature who hasn’t run and hid in its burrow. Everything hides when the wolf is out. Everything but Padfoot, whose ears are pricked and whose nose is quivering, following the same scent.

It’s familiar. Moony’s nose can pick it up and place it—he’s scented it before, dulled by his human nose.

He sees the green eyes in the dark, reflecting the light. The little creature makes no sound, soft paws barely upsetting the underbrush.

Padfoot loses his mind. He barks loudly, and Moony can see the little creature startle at the sound, and then swipe one clawed paw at Padfoot when the dog comes bounding in his direction. He makes a sound, an indignant yowl.

Padfoot crouches. Noses at the cat. The cat allows it, though his big green eyes never leave Moony.

Moony finally stalks forward, and Padfoot looks back at him, teeth bared and panting peacefully. He seems entirely unconcerned, the sound of his heart a steady, calming beat.

The cat’s heart is racing, a quick, frantic flutter. Moony can hear it. He can feel it against his nose when he finally comes close to sniff at the cat.

The cat sniffs him back, quivering whiskers tickling Moony’s nose.

He meows, very softly, almost a question. Moony huffs in response, and nudges the cat once, gently.

He recognises Harry, of course. When he’d seen him, skinny, tall and human, a moon ago, the wolf had wanted to rage in a corner of his mind, though Remus had been in control.

His mind and the wolf’s, for once, are in agreement. The cat is pack.

It’s been many years since a little creature has run with them during the moon. Moony wonders whether Harry will be able to keep up with his and Padfoot’s speed.

Only one way to find out.

The cat startles when Moony draws up to his full height. Moony can hear the riotous tapping of its little heart, kicking and kicking. He howls.

Padfoot joins, like every moon they’ve been together. When they run off into the trees, the cat follows.

At first, Moony thinks they have outrun him. The little rat, when he was with them, used to ride in Prongs’s antlers, or Padfoot’s fur. Moony thinks maybe that’s what Harry will have to do.

But then he turns around and catches sight of a pair of green eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Moony bares his teeth, the closest thing to a smile that he is capable of.

For this moon, while they run, they have a little shadow.

*

Sirius, Harry, and Remus stumble into the house like an awkward creature with three heads and entirely too many legs. Remus is drowsy and clumsy, being held up in the middle.

Harry is giddy and talkative, like a kid who’s stayed up way past his bedtime.

“You were _so fast_ ,” he says, for the tenth time. “I can’t believe I could keep up. That was _wicked._ ”

Sirius laughs, a low rumbling sound right in Remus’s ear. Harry’s chatter is in the other. All of his bones feel like they have melted and then re-solidified, and his muscles are screaming mercy, but there is an odd warmth blooming in his chest.

Harry and Sirius deposit him less-than-gently on the sofa, and Remus stretches his aching legs out, letting his head loll against the back rest.

He looks up, and sees Harry smile down at him, bright and excited, his cheeks flushed rosy brown. It is like a weight has been lifted from Remus’s shoulders.

Yes, Sirius has been telling him nothing would change. That nothing bad would happen, if they let Harry run with them. But Remus worries—it’s his job. It’s how he is. If he doesn’t worry, who will?

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love being proved wrong.

Sirius laughs, and pulls Harry into a bear hug. Remus watches them—laughing into each other and swaying with equal parts exhaustion and excitement.

It reminds him, suddenly, vividly, of that first full moon. The first full moon the Marauders ran with him. Sirius and James had been almost manic with having hatched their greatest trick yet, and even Peter had been flushed and chattering excitedly. All three of them alight with their own cleverness and daring.

And Remus. For once, not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exploring Harry and Remus's relationship in this was very important to me, and the scene where Remus and Sirius have to come out to him has been rattling around my brain for years. I just think about the ritual of coming out a lot, and how we need to do it all the time, always in different ways. Sometimes you've been out for years, and yet at the same time there are very important people in your life that just... don't know. That scene is in some ways about that strange feeling, the uncertainty that never really leaves us.
> 
> This is _almost_ the end of the line. A brief epilogue will follow tomorrow, as it's very late here in Rome.
> 
> Hope you all stay safe and healthy <3


	13. Home

Mrs Clements’ phone rings one evening in late August. She’s watching _Coronation Street_ re-runs and absent-mindedly crocheting a tea cosy. Mrs Singh called her last tea cosy a ‘misshapen lump with a soggy bottom’ and Mrs Clements is determined to show her. You can only do better by practising, after all.

Then the phone rings, so she puts down her mustard yellow concoction and picks up.

She’s no sooner said “Hello, Clements household,” than a voice starts shouting in her ear, loud enough that she has to hold the receiver a good three inches from her face.

“HELLO? CONSTANCE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

Mrs Clements gingerly places the receiver against her ear again.

“Sirius? Dear, is that you? Why are you shouting?”

“OH GOOD, YOU CAN HEAR ME— _what?_ Oh, okay.”

Sirius abruptly stops shouting. He seems to be talking to someone beside him. There is a brief shuffling noise, and then Harry’s voice comes through at a much more manageable level.

“Hello, Mrs Clements? It’s Harry. Harry Potter,” Harry says, as if Mrs Clements could possibly mistake him for some other Harry.

“Of course!” Mrs Clements says. “Hi, dear. So glad you called.”

“Hi,” Harry says again, then stops, as Sirius’s voice mutters something on the other side. “Sirius and I just wanted to let you know we’ve finally got a phone at the house, so feel free to call any time.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news!” Mrs Clements says. “Let me grab pen and paper so I can take down your number.”

There is a helpful pad by the phone just for this purpose, but all pens seem to suddenly be gone or out of ink. Mrs Clements has to stretch the curly cord of the phone to its absolute limit in order to grab one from her purse.

Meanwhile, she catches bits of Harry and Sirius’s hushed conversation on the other side.

“What do you mean you don’t know—well, it should be written on the letter you got—yes. No. Yes, I can give you back to her, but you _mustn’t_ shout. Yes, she can hear you perfectly well. I promise. Well, you just heard me, didn’t you?”

“I have a pen, dear,” Mrs Clement says to announce her return. “Whenever you’re ready.”

After that, having entered the Beech Cottage landline number in the little address book she keeps by the phone, Mrs Clements ends up calling the house whenever she intends to visit.

Sirius starts ringing her sometimes in the afternoons, too, just for a chat. It’s pleasant—the boy really does like to keep up to date on his town gossip.

He stops shouting into the phone, though he still always speaks a fraction louder than he really needs to.

Everyone has their little eccentricities. Mrs Clements really isn’t one to judge.

*

Early afternoon, 1st September. Mrs Clements drives up the narrow road leading to Beech Cottage.

Today is the day Harry leaves Heron Downs.

She knows because she rang Sirius last night, and was witness to a very long, very dramatic production in which Sirius lamented the fact that his godson was ready to leave him. Fly from the nest. Spread his wings.

“Sirius, it’s just university,” Mrs Clements had tried to reassure him. “Is he back for reading week? If not, it’ll be Christmas at the latest. You will see him very soon.”

“That’s what Remus says,” Sirius muttered, sounding somehow both put-upon and fond.

“There you go, then,” Mrs Clements had said. “Listen to your husband.”

It had, of course, struck her right as she said it that Remus wasn’t Sirius’s _husband._ He couldn’t be. That was entirely insensitive of her. She’d stammered and apology but Sirius had only barked his husky laugh into her ear.

“Oh, Constance,” Sirius had said. “It’s true, you know? He’s always right.”

She’d then changed the subject, inquiring as to their itinerary, and when they were leaving, and where they were going.

Sirius had started speaking a little louder, like he did on the phone when he forgot himself.

“Oh _no_ , we’re _fine,_ Constance. I promise. We’ll just take a—coach. To the station.”

“There are no coaches to the station dear, just the bus.”

Sirius had sighed and she’d heard him mutter under his breath, _what’s the difference?_

She didn’t grace that with a response, very used to the way Mrs Singh muttered little barbs under her breath all day. She liked to take the higher ground, Mrs Clements.

“That’s nonsense,” she’d said, in her best _respect your elders_ voice. “Where will you put all of Harry’s luggage? Honestly, Sirius, you two should buy a car.”

“We wouldn’t know how to drive one,” Sirius muttered again.

“I will drive up at two o’ clock,” she’d declared.

“Really, Constance, there’s no need to trouble yourself—”

“I won’t hear another word,” Mrs Clements had declared. “I will drive you as far as the station, and then you can take the train. There is a direct line to Waterloo, you know?”

And so she finds herself driving up to Beech Cottage at two o’clock sharp, just in time to see Harry wrestle with a very large trunk.

Remus appears on the door, and waves at her as she parks her car in their unused parking spot and pops open the boot.

“All ready to go, Constance,” Remus says, trotting down the stairs and coming to meet her. Behind him, Sirius is locking the door. When he’s done, he envelops her in a hug as Remus and Harry heave the trunk inside the boot.

“You really didn’t have to, Constance,” Sirius says, as they drive down the hill and back towards town.

Halfway through the drive Sirius, who is sitting at Mrs Clements’ left, sticks his head out of the window and lets the wind mess his dark hair.

Harry, in the backseat, laughs. Remus looks a little green, hanging onto the car door handle for dear life.

“Sirius, please,” Remus says, loud over the sound of the wind. “Put your head back inside.”

Sirius laughs—a wild, carefree laugh—but does as he’s told. His hair, when he pokes his head inside, is a bird’s nest.

He turns around and gives Mrs Clements a manic grin. His cheeks are flushed, healthy. Healthier than she remembers seeing them when they first met. Country air really does one good, it does.

“Constance,” Sirius says. “This was a wonderful idea.”

She preens a little, despite herself. She may be old but she’s not dead, and when one receives a compliment from a handsome lad, well—one is entitled to being pleased.

Remus leans forward, bravely letting go of his handle to get his hands in Sirius’s hair and attempt to straighten it. Sirius helpfully turns and smiles at him, closing his eyes under Remus’s ministrations.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you how grateful we are, Constance,” Remus says, finally letting go of Sirius and sitting back. There’s a little more colour in his cheeks now he’s been distracted by the motions of the car.

“Honestly, Remus,” Mrs Clements says. “It’s no trouble at all! It’s only a twenty minute drive.”

“No, I meant,” Remus says, with his gentle, warm smile. “For making us feel so welcome in Heron Downs.”

Mrs Clements feels herself flush with pleasure.

“Oh, not at all,” she says.

“It’s been a lovely summer,” Remus says. He turns to look at Harry, who is tapping his fingers on his knee and smiling back at him a little nervously.

Remus says, “I’m looking forward to more of them.”

She drops them off by the station, and Sirius leans into the driver’s side window to say goodbye. She wishes Harry good luck on his first term.

She gets one list glimpse of the three of them on the sidewalk, before she pulls away.

Sirius is flanked on either side by tall, lanky Harry and Remus. His hair is still a little messy, and his eyes glitter. He has a hand on each of them—on Harry’s shoulder and around Remus’s waist. Remus has that small, kind smile on his face, and his arm is reaching back around Sirius’s shoulders. Harry’s perpetually messy hair is being further ruffled by the breeze, and he waves her goodbye.

She turns around to put the car in reverse and back out into the street.

When she looks back, they’re gone.

*

Platform 9 ¾ is not as empty as Sirius expected it to be at ten to three on 1st September. He’d expected it to be deserted, in fact, after the big morning rush of new students had gone.

It was part of the reason why they’d chosen a later train—less people crowding around them and gawping at Harry. Less of a chance of meeting old acquaintances and less-than-acquaintances hoping that some fame might rub off on them.

But there are a few latecomers. A couple older students with their families, catching the later train for their own reasons. A steady stream of regular passengers looking to get into Hogsmeade.

“You know,” Harry says, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Knowing that there’s a regular service would have come in handy that time in second year.”

Sirius laughs and claps his shoulder. “But then you wouldn’t have had the formative experience of blasting through several rules and a couple of international laws.”

Remus tries to look like he doesn’t think it’s funny. He can’t quite hide it—there’s that little wicked grin curling the corner of his mouth.

“That poor tree,” he says, dry as bone.

Harry laughs, and the tension in his shoulders eases a little.

“It looks so different without all the students,” he says, looking down the half-empty platform. Then he looks back at Sirius, frowning. “Is it silly, do you think? To want to go this way? I could have Flooed into Hogsmeade.”

Harry should be at Hogwarts no longer than a week, taking part in a session of off-term NEWTS for young adults whose education was affected by the war. After that he’s off on a year abroad for his Defence qualification.

He looks tall, lanky, uncertain. He looks tentative like he had in Sirius’s kitchen three months ago and yet—he seems to stand a little taller. To rest a little easier in his own skin.

Learning to shed it every once in a while will do that to you.

“Of course it’s not silly,” Remus says. He doesn’t touch Harry, but he stands a little closer.

“One last hurrah,” Sirius says, shaking Harry’s shoulder gently.

Harry looks at him with a smile in those green eyes and Sirius is floored, for a second, by the realisation that he is about to leave. That they won’t see him for months now.

 _Don’t you dare cry, old girl,_ he tells himself.

“Look,” Sirius says, and pinches Harry’s chin. “I don’t know much, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about healing… it’s that sometimes you need to do impractical, symbolic things in order to put your bloody mind at ease.”

Harry snorts, and his eyes glitter. “Isn’t that exactly what we’ve been doing all summer?”

Sirius returns his smile, mischievous and too young for his old bones. “ _Precisely._ Now you get it, sprog.”

The train pulls into the station—it’s not the same train that takes students to Hogwarts. They look almost identical, and yet Sirius can tell. So can Harry and Remus, though Remus’s eyes get visibly misty anyway.

“Better go,” Harry says, his voice already steadier. Sirius really is going to cry, looking at his strong, brave boy.

“Hey,” Sirius says. He tugs Harry closer. “Before you go.”

He squeezes Harry as tight as he can, feeling his gently expanding ribcage under his hands. He’s warm and alive, his long arms wrapped firmly around Sirius in turn. He watches Remus over Harry’s shoulder, and the minute hesitation in his golden eyes before his shoulders slump and he comes over to join the hug.

Harry clinging to him, Remus warm against his side. Sirius takes a deep breath and holds the moment in his chest as long as he can.

 _Never forget this_ , he tells himself. _Exactly this. No matter what happens._

He lets go. A little reluctantly, and wiping at his cheeks surreptitiously.

He watches Harry gather his things and board the train, turning around to look at them and wave, one last time.

He looks grown up—nineteen years old, tall and smiling, the warm brown of his cheeks a little deeper from the summer sun. Alive, leaving, and bound to come back.

Remus’s arm wraps around Sirius’s shoulders and pulls him against his side. Sirius’s arm wraps around Remus, an entirely instinctual gesture he could perform with his eyes closed. He could trace the shape of Remus’s bony hip under his fingers in his sleep.

As the train pulls away, exhaling white smoke, Remus ducks to utter warm against Sirius’s ear, “Home?”

Sirius sighs and holds him a little closer, watching the train gather speed.

“In a minute,” he says.

_We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again—we two have;_

_We have voided all but freedom, and all but our own joy._

_(Walt Whitman)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are--this is the end for this particular story. It feels a bit like the end of an era for me, but I'm also absurdly proud of having finally pushed it out. Thanks so much for coming on this journey with me, and this goes for everyone who kudosed, commented, read along as it was posted, or is going to read this all in one go in future days/months/years. But a big special thank you and a socially distant kiss to the regular commenters. You're all just too awesome.
> 
> A particular shoutout to Duskglass, who drew [this gorgeous fanart](https://felix-duskglass.tumblr.com/post/612194775808032768/twas-i) that I am still screeching about weeks later! And a special thanks to Warpcorps for the comment that inspired it in the first place.
> 
> I don't know what else to say without getting too blubbery so I'll just say it again: love you, thank you, stay safe.
> 
> And come say hi on [tumblr](seagreeneyes.tumblr.com) if you want!


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